BARONBSS 


NICOLETTE 


BARONESS  ORCZY 


By  BARONESS  ORCZY 


NICOLE  TTE 

CASTLES  IN  THE  Ant 

THE  FIRST  Sm  PERCT 

LEAGTTE  OF  THE  SCARLET  PIMPERNEL 

FLOWER  o'  THE  LILY 

THE  MAN  IK  GRET 

LORD  TOUT'S  WIFE 

LEATHEHFACE 

THE  BRONZE  EAGLE 

A  BRIDE  OF  THE  PLAINS 

THE  LAUGHING  CAVALIER 

"UNTO  C^SAR" 

EL  DORADO 

MEADOWSWEET 

THE  NOBLE  ROGTTE 

THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN 

PETTICOAT  RULE 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


NICOLETTE 

A  TALE  OF  OLD  PROVENCE 

BY 
BARONESS  ORCZY 

Author  of  "The  First  Sir  Percy/'  "Flower  </ 

the  Lily,"  "Lord  Tony's  Wife/'  "The 

Scarlet  Pimpernel/'  etc. 


NEW  ^SlT  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


NICOLETTE.    I 
PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


Stack        PP 

Annex 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  FADED  SPLENDOUR 9 

II  LE  LIVRE  DE  RAISON 30 

III  THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  NAME       ....  56 

IV  THE  DESPATCH 86 

V  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PAST 100 

VI  ORANGE-BLOSSOM 117 

VII  TWILIGHT 145 

VIII  CHRISTMAS  EVE 167 

IX  THE  TURNING  POINT 187 

X  WOMAN  TO  WOMAN  .......  198 

XI  GREY  DAWN 229 

XII  FATHER 238 

XIII  MAN  TO  MAN 253 

XIV  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER 272 

XV  OLD  MADAME 289 

XVI  VOICES                   ....            .     ...    ...  309 


NICOLETTE 


NICOLETTE 

CHAPTER  I 

FADED  SPLENDOUR 

MIDWAY  between  Apt  and  the  shores  of 
the  Durance,  on  the  southern  slope  of 
Luberon  there  stands  an  old  chateau.  It  had 
once  been  the  fortified  stronghold  of  the  proud 
seigneurs  de  Ventadour,  who  were  direct  de- 
scendants of  the  great  troubadour,  and  claimed 
kinship  with  the  Comtes  de  Provence,  but  al- 
ready in  the  days  when  Bertrand  de  Venta- 
dour was  a  boy,  it  had  fallen  into  partial  decay. 
The  battlemented  towers  were  in  ruin,  the  roof 
in  many  places  had  fallen  in;  only  the  square 
block,  containing  the  old  living-rooms,  had  been 
kept  in  a  moderate  state  of  repair.  As  for  the 
rest,  it  was  a  dwelling-place  for  owls  and  rooks, 
the  walls  were  pitted  with  crevices  caused  by 
crumbling  masonry,  the  corbellings  and  bat- 
tlements had  long  since  broken  away,  whilst 
many  of  the  windows,  innocent  of  glass,  stared, 


10  NICOLETTE 

like  tear-dimmed  eyes,  way  away  down  the 
mountain  slope,  past  the  terraced  gradients  of 
dwarf  olives  and  carob  trees,  to  the  fertile, 
green  valley  below. 

It  is,  in  truth,  fair,  this  land  of  Provence; 
but  fair  with  the  sad,  subtle  beauty  of  a  dream 
— dream  of  splendour,  of  chivalry  and  daring 
deeds,  of  troubadours  and  noble  ladies;  fair 
with  the  romance  of  undying  traditions,  of 
Courts  of  Love  and  gallant  minstrels,  of  King 
Rene  and  lovely  Marguerite.  Fair  because  it 
is  sad  and  silent,  like  a  gentle  and  beautiful 
mother  whose  children  have  gone  out  into  the 
great  world  to  seek  fortunes  in  richer  climes, 
whilst  she  has  remained  alone  in  the  old  nest, 
waiting  with  sorrow  in  her  heart  and  arms 
ever  outstretched  in  loving  welcome  in  case 
they  should  return ;  tending  and  cherishing  the 
faded  splendours  of  yesterday;  and  burying 
with  reverence  and  tears,  one  by  one,  the  treas- 
ures that  once  had  been  her  pride,  but  which 
the  cruel  hand  of  time  had  slowly  turned  to 
dust. 

And  thus  it  was  with  the  once  splendid  do- 
maine  of  the  Comtes  de  Ventadour.  The  an- 
cient family,  once  feudal  seigneurs  who  owed 
alliance  to  none  save  to  the  Kings  of  Anjou, 
had  long  since  fallen  on  evil  days.  The  wild 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  11 

extravagance  of  five  generations  of  gallant 
gentlemen  had  hopelessly  impoverished  the  last 
of  their  line.  One  acre  after  another  of  the 
vineyards  and  lemon  groves  of  old  Provence 
were  sold  in  order  to  pay  the  gambling  debts 
of  M.  le  Comte,  or  to  purchase  a  new  diamond 
necklace  for  Madame,  his  wife.  At  the  time 
of  which  this  chronicle  is  a  faithful  record, 
nothing  remained  of  the  extensive  family  pos- 
sessions, but  the  chateau  perched  high  up  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain  and  a  few  acres  of 
woodland  which  spread  in  terraced  gradients 
down  as  far  as  the  valley.  Oh!  those  woods, 
with  their  overhanging  olive  trees,  and  feath- 
ery pines,  and  clumps  of  dull-coloured  carob 
and  silvery,  sweet-scented  rosemary :  with  their 
serpentine  paths  on  the  edge  of  which  butter- 
cups and  daisies  and  wild  violets  grew  in  such 
profusion  in  the  spring,  and  which  in  the  sum- 
mer the  wild  valerian  adorned  with  patches  of 
purple  and  crimson:  with  their  scrub  and 
granite  boulders,  their  mysterious  by-ways, 
their  nooks  and  leafy  arbours,  wherein  it  was 
good  to  hide  or  lie  in  wait  for  imaginary  foes. 
Woods  that  were  a  heaven  for  small  tripping 
feet,  a  garden  of  Eden  for  playing  hide-and- 
seek,  a  land  of  pirates,  of  captive  maidens  and 
robbers,  of  dark  chasms  and  crevases,  and  of 


12  NICOLETTE 

unequal  fights  between  dauntless  knights  and 
fierce  dragons.  Woods,  too,  where  in  the 
autumn  the  leaves  of  the  beech  and  chestnut 
turned  a  daffodil  yellow,  and  those  of  oak  and 
hazel-nut  a  vivid  red,  and  where  bunches  of 
crimson  berries  fell  from  the  mountain  ash  and 
crowds  of  chattering  starlings  came  to  feed  on 
the  fruit  of  the  dwarf  olive  trees.  Woods 
where  tiny  lizards  could  be  found  lying  so  still, 
so  still  as  the  stone  of  which  they  seemed  to 
form  a  part,  until  you  moved  just  a  trifle  near- 
er, and,  with  a  delicious  tremor  of  fear,  put  out 
your  little  finger,  hoping  yet  dreading  to  touch 
the  tiny,  lithe  body  with  its  tip,  when  lo!  it 
would  dart  away ;  out  of  sight  even  before  you 
could  call  Tan-tan  to  come  and  have  a  look. 

Tan-tan  had  decided  that  lizards  were  the 
baby  children  of  the  dragon  which  he  had  slain 
on  the  day  when  Nicolette  was  a  captive  maid- 
en, tied  to  the  big  carob  tree  by  means  of  her 
stockings  securely  knotted  around  her  wee 
body,  and  that  the  patch  of  crimson  hazel-bush 
close  by  was  a  pool  of  that  same  dragon's 
blood.  Nicolette  had  spent  a  very  uncomfort- 
able half -hour  that  day,  because  Tan-tan  took 
a  very  long  time  slaying  that  dragon,  a  huge 
tree  stump,  decayed  and  covered  with  fungi 
which  were  the  scales  upon  the  brute's  body ;  he 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  13 

had  to  slash  at  the  dragon  with  his  sword,  and 
the  dragon  had  great  twisted  branches  upon 
him  which  were  his  arms  and  legs,  and  these 
had  to  be  hacked  off  one  by  one.  And  all  the 
while  Nicolette  had  to  weep  and  to  pray  for 
the  success  of  her  gallant  deliverer  in  this  un- 
equal fight.  And  she  got  very  tired  and  very 
hot,  and  the  wind  blew  her  brown  curls  all  over 
her  face,  and  they  stuck  into  her  mouth  and  her 
eyes  and  round  her  nose;  and  Tan-tan  got 
fiercer  and  fiercer,  and  very  red  and  very  hot, 
until  Nicolette  got  really  sorry  for  the  poor 
dragon,  and  wept  real  tears  because  his  body 
and  legs  and  arms  had  been  a  favourite  rest- 
ing-place of  Micheline's  when  Micheline  was 
too  tired  for  play.  And  now  the  dragon  had 
no  more  arms  and  legs,  and  Nicolette  wept, 
and  her  loose  hair  stuck  to  her  eyes,  and  her 
stockings  were  tied  so  tightly  around  her  that 
they  began  to  hurt,  whilst  a  wasp  began  buzz- 
ing round  her  fat  little  bare  knees. 

"Courage,  fair  maiden!"  Tan-tan  exclaimed 
from  time  to  time,  "the  hour  of  thy  deliverance 
is  nigh!" 

But  not  for  all  the  world  would  Nicolette 
have  allowed  Tan-tan  to  know  that  she  had 
really  been  crying.  And  presently  when  the 
dragon  was  duly  slain  and  the  crimson  hazel- 


14,  NICOLETTE 

bush  duly  testified  that  he  lay  in  a  pool  of 
blood,  the  victorious  knight  cut  the  bonds 
which  held  Nicolette  to  the  carob  tree,  and 
lifting  her  in  his  arms,  he  carried  her  to  his 
gallant  steed,  which  was  a  young  pine  tree 
that  the  mistral  had  uprooted  some  few  years 
ago,  and  which  lay  prone  upon  the  ground— 
the  most  perfect  charger  any  knight  could  pos- 
sibly wish  for. 

What  mattered  after  that,  that  old  Margai 
was  cross  because  Nicolette's  stockings  were 
all  in  holes  ?  Tan-tan  had  deigned  to  say  that 
Nicolette  had  a  very  good  idea  of  play,  which 
enigmatic  utterance  threw  Nicolette  into  a 
veritable  heaven  of  bliss.  She  did  not  know 
what  it  meant,  but  the  tiny,  podgy  hand  went 
seeking  Tan-tan's  big,  hot  one  and  nestled 
there  like  a  bird  in  its  nest,  and  her  large  liquid 
eyes,  still  wet  with  tears,  were  turned  on  him 
with  the  look  of  perfect  adoration,  which  was 
wont  to  bring  a  flush  of  impatience  into  his 
cheek. 

"Thou  art  stupid,  Nicolette,"  he  would  say 
almost  shamefacedly,  when  that  look  came  into 
her  eyes,  and  with  a  war-whoop,  he  would  dart 
up  the  winding  path,  bounding  over  rocks  and 
broken  boughs  like  a  young  stag,  or  swarm- 
ing up  the  mountain  ash  like  a  squirrel,  shut- 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  15 

ting  his  manly  ears  to  the  sweet,  insidious  call 
of  baby  lips  that  called  pathetically  to  him 
from  below: 
"Tan-tan  I" 

Then,  when  outside  it  rained,  or  the  mistral 
blew  across  the  valley,  it  meant  delicious  wan- 
derings through  the  interminable  halls  and 
corridors  of  the  old  chateau — more  distressed 
maidens  held  in  durance  in  castellated  towers, 
Xicolette  and  Micheline  held  captive  by  cruel, 
unseen  foes :  there  were  walls  to  be  scaled,  pris- 
ons to  be  stormed,  hasty  flights  along  stone 
passages,  discovery  of  fresh  hiding-places,  and 
always  the  same  intrepid  knight,  energetic,  hot 
and  eager  to  rescue  the  damsels  in  distress. 

And  when  the  distressed  damsels  were  really 
too  tired  to  go  on  being  rescued,  there 
would  be  those  long  and  lovely  halts  in  the 
great  hall  where  past  Comtes  and  Comtesses 
de  Ventadour,  vicomtes  and  demoiselles  looked 
down  with  silent  scorn  from  out  the  mildewed 
canvases  and  tarnished  gold  frames  upon 
the  decayed  splendour  of  their  ancient  home. 
Here,  Tan-tan  would  for  the  time  being 
renounce  his  role  of  chivalrous  knight-errant, 
and  would  stand  thoughtful  and  absorbed  be- 
fore the  portraits  of  his  dead  forbears.  These 


16  NICOLETTE 

pictures  had  a  strange  fascination  for  the  boy. 
He  never  tired  of  gazing  on  them  and  repeat- 
ing to  his  two  devoted  little  listeners  the  tales 
which  for  the  most  part  his  grandmother  had 
told  him  about  these  dead  and  gone  ancestors. 

There  was  Rambaud  de  Ventadour,  the 
handsome  Comte  of  the  days  of  the  Grand 
Monarque,  who  had  hied  him  from  his  old 
chateau  in  Provence  to  the  Court  of  Ver- 
sailles, where  he  cut  a  gallant  figure  with  the 
best  of  that  brilliant  crowd  of  courtiers,  stars 
of  greater  and  lesser  magnitude  that  revolved 
around  the  dazzling  central  sun.  There  was 
Madame  la  Comtesse  Beatrix,  the  proud  beau- 
ty whom  he  took  for  wife.  They  were  rich  in 
those  days,  the  seigneurs  of  Ventadour,  and 
Jaume  Deydier,  who  was  Nicolette's  ancestor, 
was  nothing  but  a  lacquey  in  their  service ;  he 
used  to  take  care  of  the  old  chateau  while  M.  le 
Comte  and  Mme.  la  Comtesse  went  out  into  the 
gay  and  giddy  world,  to  Paris,  Versailles  or 
Rambouillet. 

'Twas  not  often  the  old  lands  of  Provence 
saw  their  seigneurs  in  those  days,  not  until 
misfortune  overtook  them  and  Geoff roy,  Com- 
te de  Ventadour,  Tan-tan's  great-grandfather, 
he  whose  portrait  hung  just  above  the  monu- 
mental hearth,  returned,  a  somewhat  sobered 


FADED   SPLENDOUR  17 

man,  to  the  home  of  his  forbears.  Here  he 
settled  down  with  his  two  sons,  and  here  Tan- 
tan's  father  was  born,  and  Tan-tan  himself, 
and  Micheline.  But  Nicolette's  father,  Jaume 
Deydier,  the  descendant  of  the  lacquey,  now 
owned  all  the  lands  that  once  had  belonged 
to  the  Comtes  de  Ventadour,  and  he  was  re- 
puted to  be  the  richest  man  in  Provence,  but  he 
never  set  foot  inside  the  old  chateau. 

Nicolette  did  not  really  mind  that  her  an- 
cestor had  been  a  lacquey.  At  six  years  of 
age  that  sort  of  information  leaves  one  cold; 
nor  did  she  quite  know  what  a  lacquey  was,  as 
there  were  none  in  the  old  homestead,  over  on 
the  other  side  of  the  valley,  where  Margai  did 
the  scrubbing,  and  the  washing  and  the  bak- 
ing, put  Nicolette  to  bed,  and  knitted  innu- 
merable pairs  of  woollen  stockings.  But  she 
liked  to  hear  about  her  ancestor  because  Tan- 
tan  liked  to  talk  about  him,  and  about  those 
wonderful  times  when  the  Comtes  de  Venta- 
dour had  gilded  coaches  and  rode  out  on  gaily 
caparisoned  horses,  going  hawking,  or  chasing, 
or  fishing  in  the  Durance,  the  while  old  Jaume 
Deydier,  the  lacquey,  had  to  stay  at  home  and 
clean  boots. 

"Whose  boots,  Tan-tan?"  Nicolette  would 
venture  to  ask,  and  a  look  of  deep  puzzlement 


18  NICOLETTE 

would  for  a  moment  put  to  flight  the  laughter 
that  dwelt  in  her  hazel  eyes. 

"Thou  art  stupid,  Nicolette,"  Tan-tan 
would  reply  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"Those  of  the  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Ven- 
tadour,  of  course." 

"All  the  day  .  .  .  would  he  clean  boots?" 
she  insisted,  in  her  halting  little  lisp.  Then, 
as  Tan-tan  simply  vouchsafed  no  reply  to  this 
foolish  query,  she  added  with  a  sigh  of  mixed 
emotions:  "They  must  have  worn  boots  and 
boots  and  boots !" 

After  which  she  dismissed  the  subject  of 
her  ancestor  from  her  mind  because  Tan-tan 
had  gone  on  talking  about  his :  about  the  Com- 
te Joseph- Alexis,  and  the  Vicomtesse  Yolande, 
the  Marquis  de  Croze  (a  collateral),  and 
Damoysella  Ysabeau  d'Agoult,  she  who  mar- 
ried the  Comte  Jeanroy  de  Ventadour,  and 
was  Lady-in-waiting  to  Mme.  de  Maintenon, 
the  uncrowned  Queen  of  France,  and  about  a 
score  or  more  of  others,  all  great  and  gallant 
gentlemen  or  beautiful,  proud  ladies.  But 
above  all  he  would  never  weary  of  talking 
about  the  lovely  Rixende,  who  was  known 
throughout  the  land  as  the  Lady  of  the  Lau- 
rels. They  also  called  her  Riande,  for  short, 
because  she  was  always  laughing,  and  was  so 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  19 

gay,  so  gay,  until  the  day  when  M.  le  Comte 
her  husband  brought  her  here  to  his  old  home 
in  Provence,  after  which  she  never  even  smiled 
again.  She  hated  the  old  chateau,  and  vowed 
that  such  an  owl's  nest  gave  her  the  megrims: 
in  truth  she  was  pining  for  the  gaieties  of  Paris 
and  Versailles,  and  even  the  people  here,  round 
about,  marvelled  why  M.  le  Comte  chose  to 
imprison  so  gay  a  bird  in  this  grim  and  lonely 
cage,  and  though  he  himself  oft  visited  the 
Court  of  Versailles  after  that,  went  to  Paris 
and  to  Rambouillet,  he  never  again  took  his 
fair  young  wife  with  him,  and  she  soon  fell  into 
melancholia  and  died,  just  like  a  song-bird  in 
captivity. 

Tan-tan  related  all  this  with  bated  breath, 
and  his  great  dark  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  kind 
of  awed  admiration  on  the  picture  which,  in 
truth,  portrayed  a  woman  of  surpassing  beau- 
ty. Her  hair  was  of  vivid  gold,  and  nestled  in 
ringlets  all  around  her  sweet  face,  her  eyes 
were  as  blue  as  the  gentian  that  grew  on  the 
mountain-side;  they  looked  out  of  the  canvas 
with  an  expression  of  unbounded  gaiety  and 
joy  of  life,  whilst  her  lips,  which  were  full  and 
red,  were  parted  in  a  smile. 

"When  I  marry,"  Tan-tan  would  declare, 
and  set  his  arms  akimbo  in  an  attitude  of  un- 


20  NICOLETTE 

swerving  determination,  "I  shall  choose  a  wife 
who  will  be  the  exact  image  of  Rixende,  she 
will  be  beautiful  and  merry,  and  she  will  have 
eyes  that  are  as  blue  as  the  sky.  Then  I  shall 
take  her  with  me  to  Paris,  where  she  will  put 
all  the  ladies  of  the  Court  to  the  blush.  But 
when  she  comes  back  with  me  to  Ventadour,  I 
shall  love  her  so,  and  love  her  so  that  she  will 
go  on  smiling  and  laughing,  and  never  pine 
for  the  courtiers  and  the  balls  and  the  routs, 
no,  not  for  the  Emperor  himself." 

Nicolette,  sitting  on  the  floor,  and  with  her 
podgy  arms  encircling  her  knees,  gazed  wide- 
eyed  on  the  beautiful  Rixende  who  was  to  be 
the  very  image  of  Tan-tan's  future  wife.  She 
was  not  thinking  about  anything  in  particular, 
she  just  looked  and  looked,  and  wondered  as 
one  does  when  one  is  six  and  does  not  quite  un- 
derstand. Her  great  wondering  eyes  were 
just  beginning  to  fill  with  tears,  when  a  harsh 
voice  broke  in  on  Tan-tan's  eloquence. 

"A  perfect  programme,  by  my  faith !  Ber- 
trand,  my  child,  you  may  come  and  kiss  my 
hand,  and  then  run  to  your  mother  and  tell 
her  that  I  will  join  her  at  coffee  this  after- 
noon." 

Bertrand  did  as  he  was  commanded.  The 
.austere  grandmother,  tall  and  proud,  and  for- 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  21 

bidding  in  a  hooped  gown,  cut  after  the  fashion 
of  three  decades  ago,  which  she  had  never  laid 
aside  for  the  new-fangled  modes  of  the  mush- 
room Empire,  held  out  her  thin  white  hand, 
and  the  boy  approached  and  kissed  it,  and  she 
patted  his  cheek,  and  called  him  a  true  Venta- 
dour. 

"While  we  sit  over  coffee,"  she  said,  vainly 
trying  to  subdue  her  harsh  voice  to  tones  of 
gentleness,  "I  will  tell  you  about  your  little 
cousin.  She  is  called  Rixende,  after  your 
beautiful  ancestress,  and  when  she  grows  up, 
she  will  be  just  as  lovely  as  this  picture.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  and  raised  a  lorgnette  to  her 
eyes,  gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  picture  of 
the  departed  Riande,  and  then  allowed  her 
cold,  wearied  glance  to  wander  round  and 
down  and  about  until  they  rested  on  the 
hunched-up  little  figure  of  Nicolette. 

"What  is  that  child  doing  here?"  she  asked, 
speaking  to  Micheline  who  stood  by,  mute  and 
shy,  as  she  always  was  when  her  grandmama 
was  nigh. 

It  was  Bertrand  who  replied : 

"Nicolette  came  to  ask  us  to  go  over  to  the 
mas  and  have  coffee  there,"  he  said,  hesitating, 
blushing,  looking  foolish,  and  avoiding  Nico- 
lette's  innocent  glance.  "Margai  has  baked  a 


22  NICOLETTE 

big,  big  brioche,"  Nicolette  chimed  in,  in  her 
piping  little  voice,  "and  churned  some  butter — 
and — and — there's  cream — heaps  and  heaps  of 
cream — and " 

"Go,  Bertrand,"  the  old  Comtesse  broke  in 
coldly,  "and  you  too,  Micheline,  to  your  moth- 
er. I  will  join  you  all  at  coffee  directly." 

Even  Bertrand,  the  favourite,  the  enfant 
gate,  dared  not  disobey  when  grandmama 
spoke  in  that  tone  of  voice.  He  said:  "Yes, 
grandmama,"  quite  meekly,  and  went  out  with- 
out daring  to  look  again  at  Nicolette,  for  of  a 
surety  he  knew  that  her  eyes  must  be  full  of 
tears,  and  he  himself  was  sorely  tempted  to 
cry,  because  he  was  so  fond,  so  very  fond  of 
Margai's  brioches,  and  of  her  yellow  butter, 
and  lovely  jars  of  cream,  whilst  in  mother's 
room  there  would  only  be  black  bread  with 
the  coffee.  So  he  threw  back  his  head  and  ran, 
just  ran  out  of  the  room;  and  as  Nicolette  had 
an  uncomfortable  lump  in  her  wee  throat  she 
did  not  call  to  Tan-tan  to  come  back,  but  sat 
there  on  the  floor  like  a  little  round  ball,  her 
head  buried  between  her  knees,  her  brown  curls 
all  tangled  and  tossed  around  her  head. 
Micheline  on  the  other  hand  made  no  attempt 
to  disguise  her  tears.  Grandmama  could  not 
very  well  be  more  contemptuous  and  distant 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  23 

towards  her  than  she  always  was,  for  Miche- 
line  was  plain,  and  slightly  misshapen,  she 
limped,  and  her  little  face  always  looked 
pinched  and  sickly.  Grandmama  despised 
ugliness,  she  herself  was  so  very  tall  and 
stately,  and  had  been  a  noted  beauty  in  the 
days  before  the  Revolution.  But  being  ugly 
and  of  no  account  had  its  advantages,  because 
one  could  cry  when  one's  heart  was  full  and 
pride  did  not  stand  in  the  way  of  tears.  So 
when  grandmama  presently  sailed  out  of  the 
hall,  taking  no  more  notice  of  Nicolette  than 
if  the  child  had  been  a  bundle  of  rags,  Miche- 
line  knelt  down  beside  her  little  friend,  and 
hugged  and  kissed  her. 

"Never  mind  about  to-day,  Nicolette,"  she 
said,  "run  back  and  tell  Margai  that  we  will 
come  to-morrow.  Grandmama  never  wants 
us  two  days  running,  and  the  brioche  won't  be 
stale." 

But  at  six  years  of  age,  when  a  whole  life- 
time is  stretched  out  before  one,  every  day  of 
waiting  seems  an  eternity,  and  Nicolette  cried 
and  cried  long  after  Micheline  had  gone. 

But  presently  a  slight  void  inside  her  re- 
minded her  of  Margai's  brioche,  and  of  the 
jar  of  cream,  and  the  tears  dried  off,  of  them- 
selves ;  she  picked  herself  up,  and  ran  out  of  the 


24,  NICOLETTE 

hall,  along  the  familiar  corridors  where  she 
had  so  often  been  a  damsel  in  distress,  and  out 
of  the  postern  gate.  She  ran  down  the  moun- 
tain-side as  fast  as  her  short  legs  would  carry 
her,  down  and  down  into  the  valley,  then  up 
again,  bounding  like  a  young  kid,  up  the  wind- 
ing track  to  the  old  house  which  her  much-de- 
spised ancestor  had  built  on  the  slope  above  the 
Leze  when  first  he  laid  the  foundations  of  the 
fortune  which  his  descendants  had  consolidated 
after  him.  Up  she  ran,  safe  as  a  bird  in  its 
familiar  haunts,  up  the  gradients  between  the 
lines  of  olive  trees  now  laden  with  fruit,  the 
source  of  her  father's  wealth.  For  while  the 
noble  Comtes  de  Ventadour  had  wasted  their 
patrimony  in  luxury  and  in  gambling,  the  Dey- 
diers,  father  and  son,  had  established  a  trade  in 
oil,  and  in  orange-flower  water,  both  of  which 
they  extracted  from  the  trees  on  the  very  land 
that  they  had  bought  bit  by  bit  from  their  for- 
mer seigneurs;  and  their  oil  was  famed 
throughout  the  country,  because  one  of  the 
Deydiers  had  invented  a  process  whereby  his 
oil  was  sweeter  than  any  other  in  the  whole  of 
Provence,  and  was  sought  after  far  and  wide, 
and  even  in  distant  lands.  But  of  this  Nico- 
lette  knew  nothing  as  yet:  she  did  not  even 
know  that  she  loved  the  grey-green  olive  trees, 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  25 

and  the  terraced  gradients  down  which  she 
was  just  able  to  jump  without  tumbling,  now 
that  she  was  six  and  her  legs  had  grown;  she 
did  not  know  that  she  loved  the  old  house  with 
its  whitewashed  walls,  its  sky-blue  shutters, 
and  multi-coloured  tiled  roof,  and  the  crimson 
rose  that  climbed  up  the  wall  to  the  very  win- 
dow sill  of  her  room,  and  the  clumps  of  orange 
and  lemon  trees  that  smelt  so  sweet  in  the 
spring  when  they  were  laden  with  blossom, 
and  the  dark  ficus  trees,  and  feathery  mimosa, 
and  vine-covered  arbours.  She  did  not  know 
that  she  loved  them  because  her  baby-heart  had 
not  yet  begun  to  speak.  All  that  she  knew 
was  that  Tan-tan  was  beautiful,  and  the  most 
wonderful  boy  that  ever,  ever  was.  There  was 
nothing  that  Tan-tan  could  not  do.  He  could 
jump  on  one  leg  far  longer  than  any  other  boy 
in  the  country-side.  He  could  throw  the  bar 
and  the  disc  much  farther  even  than  Ameyric 
who  was  reckoned  the  finest  thrower  at  the 
fetes  of  Apt.  He  could  play  bows,  and  shoot 
with  arrows,  and  to  see  him  wrestle  with  some 
of  the  boys  of  the  neighbourhood  was  enough 
to  make  one  scream  with  excitement. 

Nicolette  also  knew  that  Tan-tan  could 
make  her  cry  whenever  he  was  cross  or  im- 
patient with  her,  but  that  it  was  nice,  oh!  ever 


26  NICOLETTE 

so  nice! — when  he  condescended  to  play  with 
her,  and  carried  her  about  in  his  arms,  and 
when,  at  times,  when  she  had  been  crying  just 
in  play,  he  comforted  her  with  a  kiss. 

But  that  was  all  long,  long,  so  very  long 
ago.  Tan-tan  now  was  a  big  boy,  and  he 
never  slew  dragons  any  more ;  and  when  Nico- 
lette  through  force  of  habit  called  him  Tan-tan, 
there  was  always  somebody  to  reprove  her; 
either  the  old  Comtesse  of  whom  she  stood  in 
mortal  awe,  or  Perone  who  was  grandmama's 
maid,  and  seemed  to  hold  Nicolette  in  especial 
aversion,  or  the  reverend  Father  Simeon-Luce 
who  came  daily  from  Manosque  to  the  chateau 
in  order  to  give  lessons  to  Bertrand  in  all  sorts 
of  wonderful  subjects.  And  so  jNTicolette  had 
to  say  Bertrand  like  everybody  else,  only  when 
she  was  quite  alone  with  him,  would  she  still 
say  Tan-tan,  and  slide  her  small  hand  into  his, 
and  look  up  at  him  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion expressed  in  her  luminous  eyes.  She  took 
to  coming  less  and  less  to  the  chateau;  some- 
how she  preferred  to  think  of  Tan-tan  quietly, 
alone  in  her  cheerful  little  room,  from  the  win- 
dows of  which  she  could  see  the  top  of  the  big 
carob  tree  to  which  he  used  to  tie  her,  when  she 
was  a  captive  maiden  and  he  would  be  slaying 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  27 

dragons  for  her  sake.  Bertrand  was  not  really 
Tan-tan  when  he  was  at  the  chateau,  and 
Father  Simeon-Luce  or  grandmama  were  nigh 
and  talked  of  subjects  which  Nicolette  did  not 
understand.  The  happy  moments  were  when 
he  and  Micheline  would  come  over  to  the  mas, 
and  Marga'i  would  bake  a  lovety-  brioche,  and 
they  would  all  sit  round  the  polished  table  and 
drink  cups  of  delicious  coffee  with  whipped 
cream  on  the  top,  and  Bertrand's  eyes  would 
glow,  and  he  would  exclaim:  "Ah!  it  is  good 
to  be  here!  I  wish  I  could  stay  here  always." 
An  exclamation  which  threw  Nicolette  into  a 
veritable  ecstasy  of  happiness,  until  Jaume 
Deydier,  her  father,  wrho  was  usually  so  kind 
and  gentle  with  them  all,  would  retort  in  a 
voice  that  was  harsh  and  almost  cruel : 

"You  had  better  express  that  wish  before  my 
lady,  your  grandmother,  my  lad,  and  see  how 
she  will  receive  it." 

But  there  were  other  happy  moments,  too. 
Though  Bertrand  no  longer  slew  dragons,  he 
went  fishing  in  the  Leze  on  his  half-holidays, 
and  Nicolette  was  allowed  to  accompany  him, 
and  to  carry  his  basket,  or  hold  his  rod,  or  pick 
up  the  fish  when  they  wriggled  and  flopped 
about  upon  the  stones.  Micheline  seldom 
came  upon  these  occasions  because  the  way  was 


28  NICOLETTE 

rough,  and  it  made  her  tired  to  walk  quite  so 
far,  and  at  the  chateau  no  one  knew  that  Nieo- 
lette  was  with  Bertrand  when  he  fished.  Fa- 
ther Simeon-Luce  was  away  on  parish  work 
over  at  Manosque,  and  grandmama  never 
walked  where  it  was  rough,  so  Bertrand  would 
call  at  the  mas  for  Nicolette,  and  together  the 
two  children  would  wander  up  the  bank  of  the 
turbulent  little  mountain  stream,  till  they  came 
to  a  pool  way  beyond  Jourdans  where  fish  was 
abundant,  and  where  a  group  of  boulders, 
grass-covered  and  shaded  by  feathery  pines 
and  grim  carobs,  made  a  palace  fit  for  a  fairy- 
king  to  dwell  in.  Here  they  would  pretend 
that  they  were  Paul  and  Virginie  cast  out  on  a 
desert  island,  dependent  on  their  own  exer- 
tions for  their  very  existence.  Bertrand  had 
to  fish,  else  they  would  have  nothing  to  eat  on 
the  morrow. 

All  the  good  things  which  Margai's  loving 
hands  had  packed  for  them  in  the  morning, 
were  really  either  the  result  of  mysterious  for- 
aging expeditions  which  Bertrand  had  under- 
taken at  peril  of  his  life,  or  of  marvellous  in- 
genuity on  the  part  of  Nicolette.  Thus  the 
luscious  brioches  were  in  reality  crusts  of  bread 
which  she  had  succeeded  in  baking  in  the  sun, 
the  milk  she  had  really  taken  from  a  wild  goat 


FADED    SPLENDOUR  29 

captured  and  held  in  duress  amongst  the 
mountain  fastnesses  of  the  island,  the  eggs 
Bertrand  had  collected  in  invisible  crags  where 
sea-fowls  had  their  nests.  Oh !  it  was  a  lovely 
game  of  "Let's  pretend!"  which  lasted  until 
the  shadows  of  evening  crept  over  the  crest  of 
Luberon,  and  Bertrand  would  cast  aside  his 
rod,  remembering  that  the  hour  was  getting 
late,  and  grandmama  would  be  waiting  for 
him.  Then  they  would  return  hand  in  hand, 
their  shoes  slung  over  their  shoulders,  their  feet 
paddling  in  the  cold,  rippling  stream.  Way 
away  to  the  west  the  setting  sun  would  light 
a  gorgeous  fire  in  the  sky  behind  Luberon,  a 
golden  fire  that  presently  turned  red,  and 
against  which  the  crests  and  crags  stood  out 
clear-cut  and  sharp,  just  as  if  the  world  ended 
there,  and  there  was  nothing  behind  the  moun- 
tain-tops. 

In  very  truth  for  Nicolette  the  world  did 
end  here ;  her  world !  the  world  which  held  the 
mas  that  was  her  home,  and  to  which  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  taken  Tan-tan,  and  never 
let  him  go  again. 


CHAPTER  II 

LE  LIVRE  DE  RAISON 

GRANDMAMA  sat  very  stiff  and  erect 
at  the  head  of  the  table;  and  Bertrand 
sat  next  to  her  with  the  big,  metal-clasped  book 
still  open  before  him,  and  a  huge  key  placed 
upon  the  book.  Micheline  was  making  vain 
endeavours  to  swallow  her  tears,  and  mother 
sat  as  usual  in  her  high-backed  chair,  her  head 
resting  against  the  cushions;  she  looked  even 
paler,  more  tired  than  was  her  wont,  her  eyes 
were  more  swollen  and  red,  as  if  she,  too,  had 
been  crying. 

As  Bertrand  was  going  away  on  the  morrow, 
going  to  St.  Cyr,  where  he  would  learn  to  be- 
come an  officer  of  the  King,  grandmama  had 
opened  the  great  brass-bound  chest  that  stood 
in  a  corner  of  the  living-room,  and  taken  out 
the  "Book  of  Reason,"  a  book  which  contained 
the  family  chronicles  of  the  de  Ventadours 
from  time  immemorial,  copies  of  their  baptism 
and  marriage  certificates,  their  wills,  and  many 
other  deeds  and  archives  which  had  a  bearing 

30 


31 

upon  the  family  history.  Such  a  book — called 
"Livre  de  Raison" — exists  in  every  ancient 
family  of  Provence;  it  is  kept  in  a  chest  of 
which  the  head  of  the  house  has  the  key,  and 
whenever  occasion  demands  the  book  is  taken 
out  of  its  resting-place,  and  the  eldest  son 
reads  out  loud,  to  the  assembled  members  of 
the  family,  extracts  from  it,  as  his  father  com- 
mands him  to  do. 

Just  for  a  time,  when  Bertrand's  father 
brought  a  young  wife  home  to  the  old  chateau, 
his  old  mother — over-reluctantly  no  doubt — 
resigned  her  position  as  head  of  the  house,  but 
since  his  death,  which  occurred  when  Bertrand 
was  a  mere  baby,  and  Micheline  not  yet  born, 
grandmama  had  resumed  the  reins  of  author- 
ity which  she  had  wielded  to  her  own  complete 
satisfaction  ever  since  she  had  been  widowed. 
Of  a  truth,  her  weak,  backboneless  daughter- 
in-law,  with  her  persistent  ill-health  and  con- 
stant repinings  and  tears,  was  not  fit  to  con- 
duct family  affairs  that  were  in  such  a  hopeless 
tangle  as  those  of  the  de  Ventadours.  The 
young  Comtesse  had  yielded  without  a  strug- 
gle to  her  mother-in-law's  masterful  assump- 
tion of  authority;  and  since  that  hour  it  was 
grandmama  who  had  ruled  the  household,  su- 
perintended the  education  of  her  grandchil- 


32  NICOLETTE 

drcn,  regulated  their  future,  ordered  the  few 
servants  about,  and  kept  the  keys  of  the  dower- 
chests.  It  was  she  also  who  put  the  traditional 
"Book  of  Reason"  to  what  uses  she  thought 
best.  Mother  acquiesced  in  everything,  never 
attempted  to  argue ;  it  would  have  been  useless, 
for  grandmama  would  brook  neither  argument 
nor  contradiction,  and  mother  was  too  ill,  too 
apathetic  to  attempt  a  conflict  in  which  of  a 
surety  she  would  have  been  defeated. 
,  And  so  when  grandmama  decided  that  as 
soon  as  Bertrand  had  attained  his  seventeenth 
year  he  should  go  to  St.  Cyr,  mother  had  ac- 
quiesced without  a  murmur,  even  though  she 
felt  that  the  boy  was  too  young,  too  inexperi- 
enced to  be  thus  launched  into  the  world  where 
his  isolated  upbringing  in  far-off  old  Provence 
would  handicap  him  in  face  of  his  more  sophis- 
ticated companions.  Only  once  did  she  sug- 
gest meekly,  in  her  weak  and  tired  voice,  that 
the  life  at  St.  Cyr  offered  many  temptations 
to  a  boy  hitherto  unaccustomed  to  freedom, 
and  to  the  society  of  strangers. 

"The  cadets  have  so  many  days'  leave,"  she 
said,  "Bertrand  will  be  in  Paris  a  great  deal." 

<rBah!"  grandmama  had  retorted  with  a 
shrug  of  her  shoulders,  "Sybille  de  Mont- 
Pahon  is  no  fool,  else  she  were  not  my  sister. 


LELIVREDERAISON  33 

She  will  look  after  Bertrand  well  enough  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  Rixende." 

After  which  feeble  effort  mother  said  noth- 
ing more,  and  in  her  gentle,  unobtrusive  way 
set  to,  to  get  Bertrand's  things  in  order.  Of 
course  she  was  bound  to  admit  that  it  was  a 
mightily  good  thing  for  the  boy  to  go  to  St. 
Cyr,  where  he  would  receive  an  education 
suited  to  his  rank,  as  well  as  learn  those  airs 
and  graces  which  since  the  restoration  of  King 
Louis  had  once  more  become  the  hall-mark 
that  proclaimed  a  gentleman.  It  would  also 
be  a  mightily  good  thing  for  him  to  spend  a 
year  or  two  in  the  house  of  his  great-aunt, 
Mme.  de  Mont-Pahon,  a  lady  of  immense 
wealth,  whose  niece  Rixende  would  in  truth  be 
a  suitable  wife  for  Bertrand  in  the  years  to 
come.  But  he  was  still  so  young,  so  very 
young  even  for  his  age,  and  to  put  thoughts  of 
a  mercenary  marriage,  or  even  of  a  love-match 
into  the  boy's  head  seemed  to  the  mother  al- 
most a  sin. 

But  grandmama  thought  otherwise. 

"It  is  never  too  soon,"  she  declared,  "to  make 
a  boy  understand  something  of  his  future  des- 
tiny, and  of  the  responsibilities  which  he  will 
have  to  shoulder.  Sybille  de  Mont-Pahon  de- 
sires the  marriage  as  much  as  I  do :  she  speaks 


34  NICOLETTE 

of  it  again  in  her  last  letter  to  me :  Rixende's 
father,  our  younger  sister's  child,  was  one  of 
those  abominable  traitors  to  his  King  who 
chose  to  lick  the  boots  of  that  Corsican  upstart 
who  had  dared  to  call  himself  Emperor  of  the 
French.  Heaven  being  just,  the  renegade  has 
fallen  into  dire  penury  and  Sybille  has  cared 
for  his  daughter  as  if  she  were  her  own,  but  the 
stain  upon  her  name  can  be  wiped  out  only  by 
an  alliance  with  a  family  such  as  ours.  Ber- 
trand's  path  lies  clear  before  him :  win  Sybille's 
regard  and  the  affection  of  Rixende,  and  the 
Mont-Pahon  millions  will  help  to  re-gild  the 
tarnished  escutcheon  of  the  Ventadours,  and 
drag  us  all  out  of  this  slough  of  penury  and 
degradation  in  which  some  of  our  kindred  have 
already  gone  under." 

Thus  the  day  drew  nigh  when  Bertrand 
would  have  to  go.  Everything  was  ready  for 
his  departure  and  his  box  was  packed,  and  Jas- 
min, the  man  of  all  work,  had  already  taken  it 
across  to  Jaume  Deydier's;  for  at  six  o'clock 
on  the  morrow  Deydier's  barouche  would  be  on 
the  road  down  below,  and  it  would  take  Ber- 
trand as  far  as  Pertuis,  where  he  would  pick  up 
the  diligence  to  Avignon  and  thence  to  Paris. 

What  wonder  that  mother  wept !  Bertrand 
had  never  been  away  from  home,  and  Paris 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  35 

was  such  a  long,  such  a  very  long  way  off! 
Bertrand  who  had  never  slept  elsewhere  than 
in  his  own  little  bed,  in  the  room  next  to  Miche- 
line's,  would  have  to  sleep  in  strange  inns,  or 
on  the  cushions  of  the  diligence.  The  journey 
would  take  a  week,  and  he  would  have  so 
very  little  money  to  spend  on  small  comforts 
and  a  good  meal  now  and  then.  It  was  indeed 
awful  to  be  so  poor,  that  Micheline's  christen- 
ing cup  had  to  be  sold  to  provide  Bertrand 
with  pocket  money  on  the  way.  Oh,  pray 
God!  pray  God  that  the  boy  found  favour  in 
the  eyes  of  his  rich  relative,  and  that  Rixende 
should  grow  up  to  love  him  as  he  deserved  to 
be  loved ! 

But  grandmama  did  not  weep.  She  was 
fond  of  Bertrand  in  her  way,  fonder  of  him 
than  she  was,  or  had  been,  of  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  but  in  an  entirely  unemotional  way. 
She  was  ambitious  for  him,  chiefly  because  in 
him  and  through  him  she  foresaw  the  re-estab- 
lishment of  the  family  fortunes. 

Ever  since  he  had  come  to  the  age  of  under- 
standing, she  had  talked  to  him  about  his  name, 
his  family,  his  ancestors,  the  traditions  and 
glories  of  the  past  which  were  recorded  in  the 
Book  of  Reason.  And  on  this  last  afternoon 
which  Bertrand  would  spend  at  home  for  many 


86  NICOLETTE 

a  long  year,  she  got  the  book  out  of  the  chest, 
and  made  him  read  extracts  from  it,  from  the 
story  of  Guilhem  de  Ventadour  who  went  to 
the  Crusades  with  King  Louis,  down  to  Ber- 
trand's  great-great-grandfather  who  was  one 
of  the  pall-bearers  at  the  funeral  of  the  Grand- 
Monarque. 

The  reading  of  these  extracts  from  the  Book 
of  Reason  took  on,  on  this  occasion,  the  aspect 
of  a  solemn  rite.  Bertrand,  who  loved  his 
family  history,  read  on  with  enthusiasm  and 
fervour,  his  eyes  glowing  with  pride,  his  young 
voice  rolling  out  the  sentences,  when  the  book 
told  of  some  marvellous  deed  of  valour  per- 
petrated by  one  of  his  forbears,  or  of  the 
riches  and  splendours  which  were  theirs  in  those 
days,  wherever  they  went.  Nor  did  he  tire  or 
wish  to  leave  off  until  grandmama  suddenly 
and  peremptorily  bade  him  close  the  book.  He 
had  come  to  the  page  where  his  grandfather 
had  taken  up  the  family  chronicles,  and  he 
had  nought  but  tales  of  disappointments,  of 
extravagance  and  of  ever-growing  poverty  to 
record. 

"There,  it's  getting  late,"  grandmama  said 
decisively,  "put  down  the  book,  Bertrand,  and 
you  may  lock  it  up  in  the  chest,  and  then  give 
me  back  the  key." 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  37 

But  Bertrand  lingered  on,  the  book  still 
open  before  him,  the  heavy  key  of  the  chest 
laid  upon  its  open  pages.  He  was  so  longing 
to  read  about  his  grandfather,  and  about  his 
uncle  Raymond,  around  whose  name  and  per- 
sonality there  hung  some  kind  of  mystery. 
He  thought  that  since  he  was  going  away  on 
the  morrow,  the  privileges  of  an  enfant  gate 
might  be  accorded  him  to-night,  and  his  eager- 
ly expressed  wish  fulfilled.  But  the  words  had 
scarcely  risen  to  his  lips  before  grandmama 
said  peremptorily:  "Go,  Bertrand,  do  as  I  tell 

you." 

And  when  grandmama  spoke  in  that  tone  it 
was  useless  to  attempt  to  disobey.  Swallow- 
ing his  mortification,  Bertrand  closed  the  book 
and,  without  another  word,  he  picked  up  the 
big  key  and  took  the  book  and  locked  it  up  in 
the  chest  that  stood  in  the  furthest  corner  of 
the  room.  He  felt  cross  and  disappointed, 
conscious  of  a  slight  put  upon  him  as  the  eldest 
son  of  the  house  and  the  only  male  representa- 
tive of  the  Ventadours.  He  was  by  right  the 
head  of  the  family,  and  it  was  not  just  that 
he  should  be  governed  by  women.  Ah!  when 
he  came  back  from  St.  Cyr  .  .  .  ! 

But  here  his  meditations  were  interrupted 
by  the  sound  of  his  name  spoken  by  his  mother. 


38  NICOLETTE 

"Bertrand  ought  to  go,"  she  was  saying  in 
her  gentle  and  hesitating  way,  "and  say  good- 
bye to  Nicolette  and  to  Jaume  Deydier  and 
thank  him  for  lending  his  barouche  to-mor- 
row." 

"I  do  not  see  the  necessity,"  grandmama  re- 
plied. "He  saw  Deydier  last  Sunday,  and 
methought  he  would  have  preferred  to  spend 
the  rest  of  his  time  with  his  own  sister." 

"Micheline  might  go  with  him,"  mother 
urged,  "as  far  as  the  mas.  She  would  enjoy 
half  an  hour's  play  with  Nicolette." 

"In  very  truth,"  grandmama  broke  in  with 
marked  irritation,  "I  do  not  understand,  my 
good  Marcelle,  how  you  can  encourage  Miche- 
line to  associate  with  that  Deydier  child.  I 
vow  her  manners  get  worse  every  day,  and  no 
wonder;  the  brat  is  shockingly  brought  up  by 
that  old  fool  Margai,  and  Jaume  Deydier  him- 
self has  never  been  more  than  a  peasant." 

"Nicolette  is  only  a  child,"  mother  had  re- 
plied with  a  weary  sigh,  "and  Micheline  will 
have  no  one  of  her  own  age  to  speak  to,  when 
Bertrand  has  gone." 

"As  to  that,  my  dear,"  grandmama  retorted 
icily,  "you  have  brought  this  early  separation 
on  yourself.  Bertrand  might  have  remained 
at  home  another  couple  of  years,  studying  with 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  39 

Father  Simeon-Luce,  but  frankly  this  intimacy 
with  the  Deydiers  frightened  me,  and  hastened 
my  decision  to  send  him  to  St.  Cyr." 

"It  was  a  cruel  decision,  madame,"  the  Com- 
tesse  Marcelle  rejoined  with  unwonted  energy, 
"Bertrand  is  young  and " 

"He  is  seventeen,"  the  old  Comtesse  inter- 
posed in  her  hard,  trenchant  voice,  "an  im- 
pressionable age.  And  we  do  not  want  a 
repetition  of  the  adventure  which  sent  Ray- 
mond de  Ventadour ' 

"Hush,  madame,  in  Heaven's  name!"  her 
daughter-in-law  broke  in  hastily,  and  glanced 
with  quick  apprehension  in  the  direction  where 
Bertrand  stood  gazing  with  the  eager  curiosity 
of  his  age,  wide-eyed  and  excited,  upon  the  old 
Comtesse,  scenting  a  mystery  of  life  and  ad- 
venture which  was  being  withheld  from  him. 

Grandmama  beckoned  to  him,  and  made  him 
kneel  on  the  little  cushion  at  her  feet.  He  had 
grown  into  a  tall  and  handsome  lad  of  late, 
with  the  graceful,  slim  stature  of  his  race,  and 
that  wistful  expression  in  the  eyes  which  is  no- 
ticeable in  most  of  the  portraits  of  the  de  Ven- 
tadours,  and  which  gave  to  his  young  face  an 
almost  tragic  look. 

Grandmama  with  delicate,  masterful  hand, 
pushed  back  the  fair  unruly  hair  from  the  lad's 


40  NICOLETTE 

forehead  and  gazed  searchingly  into  his  face. 
He  returned  her  glance  fearlessly,  even  lov- 
ingly, for  he  was  fond,  in  a  cool  kind  of  way, 
of  his  stately  grandmother,  who  was  so  austere 
and  so  stern  to  everybody  and  unbent  only  for 
him. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes,  which 
time  had  not  yet  dimmed,  appeared  to  search 
the  boy's  very  soul. 

"What  at,  grandmama?"  he  asked. 

"If  I  can  trust  you,  Bertrand." 

"Trust  me?"  the  boy  exclaimed,  indignant 
at  the  doubt.  "I  am  Comte  de  Ventadour," 
he  went  on  proudly.  "I  would  sooner  die  than 
commit  a  dishonourable  action.  ..." 

Whereat  grandmama  laughed ; — an  unpleas- 
ant, grating  laugh  it  was,  which  acted  like  an 
icy  douche  upon  the  boy's  enthusiasm.  She 
turned  her  gaze  on  her  daughter-in-law,  whose 
pale  face  took  on  a  curious  ashen  hue,  whilst 
her  trembling  lips  murmured  half  incoherently : 

"Madame — for  pity's  sake " 

"Ah  bah!"  the  old  lady  rejoined  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "the  boy  will  have  to 
know  sooner  or  later  that  his  father ' 

"Madame !"  the  younger  woman 

pleaded  once  more,  but  this  time  there  was  just 


LELIVREDERAISON  41 

a  thought  of  menace,  and  less  of  humility  in 
her  tone. 

"There,  there!"  grandmama  rejoined  dryly, 
"calm  your  fears,  my  good  Marcelle,  I  won't 
say  anything  to-day.  Bertrand  goes  to-mor- 
row. We  shall  not  see  him  for  two  years:  let 
him  by  all  means  go  under  the  belief  that  no 
de  Ventadour  has  ever  committed  a  dishonour- 
able action." 

Throughout  this  short  passage  of  arms  be- 
tween his  mother  and  grandmother,  Bertrand 
had  remained  on  his  knees,  his  great  dark  eyes, 
with  that  wistful  look  of  impending  tragedy  in 
them,  wandering  excitedly  from  one  familiar 
face  to  the  other.  This  was  not  the  first  time 
that  his  keen  ears  had  caught  a  hint  of  some 
dark  mystery  that  clung  around  the  memory  of 
the  father  whom  he  had  never  known.  Like 
most  children,  however,  he  would  sooner  have 
died  than  ask  a  direct  question,  but  this  he 
knew,  that  whenever  his  father's  name  was 
mentioned,  his  mother  wept,  and  grandmama's 
glance  became  more  stern,  more  forbidding 
than  its  wont.  And,  now  on  the  eve  of  his 
departure  for  St.  Cyr,  he  felt  that  mystery  en- 
compass him,  poisoning  the  joy  he  had  in  going 
away  from  the  gloomy  old  chateau,  from  old 
women  and  girls  and  senile  servitors,  out  into 


42  NICOLETTE 

the  great  gay  world  of  Paris,  where  the  ro- 
mance and  adventures  of  which  he  had  dreamt 
ever  since  he  could  remember  anything,  would 
at  last  fall  to  his  lot,  with  all  the  good  things 
of  this  life.  He  felt  that  he  was  old  enough 
now  to  know  what  it  was  that  made  his  mother 
so  perpetually  sad,  that  she  had  become  old  be- 
fore her  time,  sick  and  weary,  an  absolute  non- 
entity in  family  affairs  over  which  grandmama 
ruled  with  a  masterful  hand.  But  now  he  was 
too  proud  to  ask.  They  treated  him  as  a  child 
— very  well!  he  was  going  away,  and  when  he 
returned  he  would  show  them  who  would  hence- 
forth be  the  master  of  his  family's  destiny. 
But  for  the  moment  all  that  he  ventured  on 
was  a  renewed  protest: 

"You  can  trust  me  in  everything,  grand- 
mama,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  a  child." 

Grandmama  was  still  gazing  into  his  face, 
gazing  as  if  she  would  read  all  the  secrets  of 
his  young  unsophisticated  soul :  he  returned  her 
gaze  with  a  glance  as  searching  as  her  own. 
For  a  moment  they  were  in  perfect  communion 
these  two,  the  old  woman  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave,  and  the  boy  on  the  threshold  of  life. 
They  understood  one  another,  and  each  read  in 
the  other's  face,  the  same  pride,  the  same  am- 
bition, and  the  same  challenge  to  an  adverse 


LELIVREDERAISON  43 

fate.  For  a  moment,  too,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
grandmother  would  speak,  tell  the  boy  some- 
thing at  least  of  the  tragedies  which  had  dark- 
ened the  last  few  pages  of  the  family  chron- 
icles; and  Bertrand,  quite  unconsciously,  put 
so  much  compelling  force  into  his  gaze  that  the 
old  woman  was  on  the  point  of  yielding.  But 
once  more  the  mother's  piteous  voice  pleaded 
for  silence: 

"Madame!"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  voice  broke  the  spell;  grandmama  rose 
abruptly  to  her  feet,  which  caused  Bertrand  to 
tumble  backwards  off  the  cushion.  By  the 
time  he  had  picked  himself  up  again,  grand- 
mama  had  gone. 

Bertrand  felt  low  and  dispirited,  above  all 
cross  with  his  mother  for  interfering.  He 
went  out  of  the  room  without  kissing  her.  At 
first  he  thought  of  following  grandmama  into 
her  room  and  forcing  her  to  tell  him  all  that  he 
wanted  to  know,  but  pride  held  him  back.  He 
would  not  be  a  suppliant:  he  would  not  beg, 
there  where  in  a  very  short  time  he  would  com- 
mand. There  could  be  nothing  dishonourable 
in  the  history  of  the  de  Ventadours.  They 
were  too  proud,  too  noble,  for  dishonour  even 
to  touch  their  name.  Instinctively  Bertrand 


44  NICOLETTE 

had  wandered  down  to  the  great  hall  where 
hung  the  portraits  of  those  Ventadours  who 
had  been  so  rich  and  so  great  in  the  past. 
Bertrand  was  now  going  out  into  the  world  in 
order  to  rebuild  those  fortunes  which  an  unjust 
fate  had  wrested  from  him.  He  gazed  on  the 
portrait  of  lovely  Rixende.  She,  too,  had  been 
rich  and  brought  a  splendid  dowry  to  her  lord 
when  she  married  him.  He  had  proved  un- 
grateful and  she  had  died  of  sorrow.  Ber- 
trand marvelled  if  in  truth  his  cousin  Rixende 
was  like  her  namesake.  Anyway  she  was  rich, 
and  he  would  love  her  to  his  dying  day  if  she 
consented  to  be  his  wife. 

Already  he  loved  her  because  he  had  been 
told  that  she  had  hair  glossy  and  golden  like 
the  Rixende  of  the  picture,  and  great  mysteri- 
ous eyes  as  blue  as  the  gentian;  and  that  her 
lips  smiled  like  those  of  Rixende  had  done, 
whereupon  he  marvelled  if  they  would  be  good 
to  kiss.  After  which,  by  an  unexplainable 
train  of  thought,  he  fell  to  thinking  of  Nico- 
lette.  She  had  sent  him  a  message  by  Miche- 
line  yesterday  that  she  would  wait  for  him  all 
the  afternoon,  on  their  island  beside  the  pool. 
It  was  now  past  four  o'clock.  The  shades  of 
evening  were  fast  gathering  in,  in  the  valley 
below,  and  even  up  here  on  the  heights  the 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  45 

ciliated  shadows  of  carob  and  olive  were  begin- 
ning to  lengthen.  It  would  take  an  hour  to 
run  as  far  as  the  pool ;  and  then  it  would  be  al- 
most time  to  come  home  again,  for  of  late  Jau- 
me  Deydier  had  insisted  that  Nicolette  must 
be  home  before  dark.  It  was  foolish  of  Nico- 
lette to  be  waiting  for  him  so  far  away.  Why 
could  she  not  be  sensible  and  come  across  to  the 
chateau  to  say  good-bye?  The  boy  was  fight- 
ing within  himself,  fighting  a  battle  wherein 
tenderness  and  vanity  were  on  the  one  side,  and 
a  false  sense  of  pride  and  manliness  on  the 
other.  In  the  end  it  was  perhaps  vanity  that 
won  the  fight.  All  day  he  had  been  treated 
as  a  child  that  was  being  packed  up  and  sent 
to  school:  all  day  he  had  been  talked  to,  and 
admonished,  and  preached  at,  first  by  grand- 
mama,  and  then  by  Father  Simeon-Luce;  he 
had  been  wept  over  by  mother  and  by  Miche- 
line:  now  Nicolette  neither  admonished  nor 
wept.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  do  the  for- 
mer and  she  was  too  sensible  to  attempt  the 
latter.  She  would  probably  stand  quite  still 
and  listen  while  he  told  her  of  his  plans  for  the 
future,  and  all  the  fine  things  he  would  do  when 
he  was  of  age,  and  rich,  and  had  married  his 
cousin  Rixende. 

Nicolette  was  sensible,  she  would  soothe  his 


46  NICOLETTE 

ruffled  self-esteem  and  restore  to  him  some  of 
that  confidence  in  himself  of  which  he  would 
stand  in  sore  need  during  the  long  and  lonely 
voyage  that  lay  before  him. 

Hardly  conscious  of  his  own  purpose,  Ber- 
trand  sauntered  down  the  mountain-side.  It 
was  still  hot  on  this  late  September  afternoon, 
and  the  boy  instinctively  sought,  as  he  de- 
scended, the  cool  shadows  that  lay  across  the 
terraced  gradients.  A  pungent  scent  of  rose- 
mary and  eucalyptus  was  in  the  air,  and  from 
the  undergrowth  around  came  the  muffled 
sound  of  mysterious,  little  pattering  feet,  or 
call  of  tiny  beasts  to  their  mates.  Bertrand's 
head  ached,  and  his  hands  felt  as  if  they  were 
on  fire.  A  curious  restlessness  and  dissatisfac- 
tion made  him  feel  out  of  tune  with  these  woods 
which  he  loved  more  than  he  knew,  with  the 
blood-red  berries  of  the  mountain  ash  that  lit- 
tered the  ground,  and  the  low  bushes  of  hazel- 
nut  which  autumn  had  painted  a  vivid  crimson. 
Now  he  was  down  in  the  valley  and  up  again 
on  the  spur  behind  which  tossed  and  twirled 
the  clear  mountain  stream. 

The  rough  walk  was  doing  him  good:  his 
body  felt  hot  but  his  hands  were  cooler  and 
his  temples  ceased  to  throb.  When  he  reached 
the  water's  edge,  he  sat  down  on  a  boulder  and 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  47 

took  off  his  boots  and  his  stockings  and  slung 
them  over  his  shoulder,  and  walked  up  the  bed 
of  the  stream  until  the  waters  widened  into  that 
broad,  silent  pool  which  washed  the  shores  of 
his  fairy  island.  Already  from  afar  he  had 
spied  Nicolette;  she  was  watching  for  him  on 
the  grassy  slope,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the 
big  carob  that  overhung  the  pool.  She  had 
on  a  short  kirtle  of  faded  blue  linen,  and  a  white 
apron  and  shift,  the  things  she  always  wore 
when  she  was  Virginie  and  he  was  Paul  on  their 
fairy  island.  She  had  obviously  been  pad- 
dling, for  she  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  her  feet  and  legs  shone  like 
rose-tinted  metal  in  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees. 
Her  head  was  bare  and  a  soft  breeze  stirred  the 
loose  brown  curls  about  her  head,  but  Bertrand 
could  not  see  her  face,  for  her  head  was  bent 
as  if  she  were  gazing  intently  into  the  pool. 
Way  up  beyond  the  valley,  the  sinking  sun 
had  tinged  the  mountain  peaks  with  gold,  and 
had  already  lit  the  big,  big  fire  in  the  sky  be- 
hind Luberon,  but  here  on  the  island  every- 
thing was  cool  and  grey  and  peaceful,  with 
only  the  murmur  of  the  stream  over  the  peb- 
bles to  break  the  great  solemn  silence  of  the 
woods. 

When  Bertrand  jumped  upon  the  big  boul- 


48  NICOLETTE 

der,  the  one  from  which  he  was  always  wont  to 
fish,  Nicolette  looked  up  and  smiled.  But  she 
did  not  say  anything,  not  at  first,  and  Ber- 
trand  stood  by  a  little  shamefaced  and  quite 
unaccountably  bashful. 

"The  fish  have  been  shy  all  the  afternoon," 
were  the  first  words  that  Nicolette  said. 

"Did  you  try  and  fish?"  Bertrand  asked. 

Nicolette  pointed  to  a  rod  and  empty  basket 
which  lay  on  the  grass  close  by. 

"I  borrowed  those  from  Ameyric  over  at 
La  Bastide,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  try  my 
hand  at  it."  She  paused.  Then  she  swal- 
lowed; swallowed  hard  and  resolutely  as  if 
there  had  been  a  very  big  lump  in  her  throat. 
Then  she  said  quite  simply : 

"I  shall  have  to  do  something  on  long  after- 
noons when  I  come  here 

"But  you  are  going  away  too,"  the  boy  re- 
joined, quite  angry  with  himself  because  his 
voice  was  husky. 

"Not  till  after  the  New  Year.  Then  I  am 
going  to  Avignon." 

"Avignon?" 

"To  school  at  the  Ladies  of  the  Visitation," 
she  explained,  and  added  quaintly:  "I  am  very 
ignorant,  you  know,  Tan-tan." 


LELIVREDERAISON  49 

He  frowned  and  she  thought  that  he  was 
cross  because  she  had  called  him  Tan-tan. 

"By  the  time  you  come  back,"  she  said  meek- 
ly, "I  shall  be  quite  used  to  calling  you  M.  le 
Comte." 

"Don't  be  stupid,  Nicolette,"  was  all  that 
Bertrand  could  think  of  saying. 

They  were  both  silent  after  that,  and  as 
Nicolette  turned  to  climb  up  the  gradient,  Ber- 
trand followed  her,  half  reluctantly.  He  knew 
she  was  going  to  the  hut  of  Paul  et  Virginie: 
the  place  they  were  wont  to  call  their  island 
home.  It  was  just  an  old,  a  very  old  olive  tree, 
with  a  huge,  hollow  trunk,  in  which  they,  as 
children,  could  easily  find  shelter,  and  in  the 
spring  the  ground  around  it  was  gay  with  but- 
tercups and  daisies ;  and  bunches  of  vivid  blue 
gentian  and  lavender  and  broom  nestled 
against  the  great  grey  boulders.  Here  Ber- 
trand and  Nicolette  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
sitting  when  they  pretended  to  be  Paul  et  Vir- 
ginie cast  off  on  a  desert  island,  and  here  they 
would  eat  the  food  which  "Paul"  had  found 
at  peril  of  his  life,  and  which  "Virginie"  had 
cooked  with  such  marvellous  ingenuity.  They 
had  been  so  happy  there,  so  often.  The  wood- 
pigeons  would  come  and  pick  up  the  crumbs 
after  they  had  finished  eating,  and  now  and 


50  NICOLETTE 

then,  when  they  sat  very,  very  still,  a  hare 
would  dart  out  from  behind  a  great  big  boul- 
der, and  peep  out  at  them  with  large  fright- 
ened eyes,  his  long  ears  sharply  silhouetted 
against  the  sun-kissed  earth,  and  at  the  slight- 
est motion  from  them,  or  wilful  clapping  of 
their  hands,  it  would  dart  away  again,  leaving 
Bertrand  morose  and  fretful  because,  though 
he  was  a  big  man,  he  was  not  yet  allowed  to 
have  a  gun. 

"When  I  am  a  man,"  was  the  burden  of  his 
sighing,  and  Nicolette  would  have  much  ado 
to  bring  the  smile  back  into  his  eyes. 

They  had  been  so  happy — so  often.  The 
flowers  were  their  friends,  the  wild  pansy  with 
its  quizzical  wee  face,  the  daisy  with  the  secrets, 
which  its  petals  plucked  off  one  by  one,  re- 
vealed, the  lavender  which  had  to  be  carried 
home  in  huge  bunches  for  Margai  to  put  in 
muslin  bags.  All  but  the  gentian.  Nicolette 
never  liked  the  gentian,  though  its  petals  were 
of  such  a  lovely,  heavenly  blue.  But  when- 
ever Bertrand  spied  one  he  would  pluck  it,  and 
stick  it  into  his  buttonhole:  "The  eyes  of  my 
Rixende,"  he  would  say,  "will  be  bluer  than 
this."  Fortunately  there  was  not  much  gen- 
tian growing  on  the  island  of  Paul  et  Virginie. 

They  had  been  so  happy  here — so  often, 


LELIVREDERAISON  51 

away  from  grandmama's  stern  gaze  and  Fa- 
ther Simeon-Luce's  admonitions,  when  they 
had  just  pretended  and  pretended:  pretended 
that  the  Leze  was  the  great  open  sea,  on  which 
never  a  ship  came  in  sight  to  take  them  away 
from  their  beloved  island,  out  into  the  great 
world  which  they  had  never  known. 

But  to-day  to  Bertrand,  who  was  going 
away  on  the  morrow  into  that  same  great  and 
unknown  world,  the  game  of  pretence  ap- 
peared futile  and  childish.  He  was  a  man 
now,  and  could  no  longer  play.  Somehow  he 
felt  cross  with  Nicolette  for  having  put  on  her 
"Virginie"  dress,  and  he  pretended  that  his 
feet  were  cold,  and  proceeded  to  put  on  his 
stockings  and  his  boots. 

"The  big  ship  has  come  in  sight,  Bertrand," 
the  girl  said.  "We  will  never  see  our  island 
again." 

"That  is  nonsense,  Nicolette,"  Bertrand  re- 
joined, seemingly  deeply  occupied  in  the  put- 
ting on  of  his  boots.  "We  will  often  come 
here,  very  often,  when  the  trout  are  plentiful 
and  I  am  home  for  the  holidays." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Margai,"  she  said,  "overheard  Perone  talk- 
ing to  Jasmin  the  other  day,  and  Perone  said 


52  NICOLETTE 

that  Mme.  la  Comtesse  did  not  wish  you  to 
come  home  for  at  least  two  years." 

"Well!  in  two  years'  time  .  .  ."  he  argued, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

She  offered  him  some  lovely  buttered  bri- 
oche, and  said  it  was  fish  she  had  dried  by  a 
new  process  on  slabs  of  heated  stone,  and  she 
also  had  some  milk,  which  she  said  she  had 
found  inside  a  coconut. 

"The  coconut  trees  are  plentiful  on  the  is- 
land," she  said,  "and  the  milk  from  the  nuts 
is  as  sweet  as  if  it  were  sugared."  But  Ber- 
trand  would  not  eat,  he  said  he  had  already 
had  coffee  and  cakes  in  grandmama's  room, 
and  Nicolette  abstractedly  started  crumbling 
up  the  brioche,  hoping  that  the  wood-pigeons 
would  soon  come  for  their  meal.  She  was  try- 
ing to  recapture  the  spirit  of  a  past  that  was 
no  more :  the  elusive  spirit  of  that  happy  world 
in  which  she  had  dwelt  alone  with  Tan-tan. 
But  strive  how  she  might,  she  felt  that  the 
outer  gates  of  that  world  were  being  closed 
against  her  for  ever.  Suddenly  she  realised 
that  it  was  getting  dark,  and  that  she  felt  a 
little  cold.  She  squatted  on  the  ground  and 
put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings. 

"We  shall  have  to  hurry,"  she  said,  "father 
does  not  like  me  to  be  out  long  after  dark." 


LE    LIVRE    DE    RAISON  53 

Then  she  jumped  to  her  feet  and  started 
climbing  quickly  up  the  stone-built  terraces, 
darting  at  break-neck  speed  round  and  about 
the  olive  trees,  a<nd  deliberately  turning  her 
back  on  the  pool,  and  the  fairy  island  which 
she  knew  now  that  she  would  never,  never 
see  again.  Bertrand  had  some  difficulty  in 
following  her.  Though  he  felt  rather  cross, 
he  also  felt  vaguely  remorseful.  Somehow 
he  wished  now  that  he  had  not  come  at  all. 

"Nicolette,"  he  called,  "why,  you  have  not 
said  good-bye!" 

And  this  he  said  because  Nicolette  had  in 
truth  scurried  just  like  a  young  hare,  way  off 
to  the  right,  and  was  now  running  and  leaping 
down  the  gradients  till  she  reached  the  fence 
of  the  mas  which  was  her  home.  Here  she 
leaned  against  the  gate.  Bertrand,  running 
after  her  as  fast  as  he  could,  could  scarce  dis- 
tinguish her  in  the  fast  gathering  gloom.  He 
could  only  vaguely  see  the  gleam  of  her  white 
shift  and  apron.  She  was  leaning  against  the 
gate,  and  a  pale  gleam  of  twilight  outlined  her 
arm  and  hand  and  the  silhouette  of  her  curly 
head. 

"Nicolette,"  he  called  again,  "don't  go  in,  I 
must  kiss  you  good-bye." 

As  usual  she  was  obedient  to  his  command, 


54  NICOLETTE 

and  waited,  panting  a  little  after  this  madcap 
run  through  the  woods,  till  he  was  near  her. 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her  on  the 
temple. 

"Good-bye,  Nicolette,"  he  said  cheerily, 
"don't  forget  me/' 

"Goodjbye,  Bertrand,"  she  murmured  un- 
der her  breath. 

Then  she  turned  quickly:  and  was  through 
the  gate  and  out  of  sight  before  he  could  say 
another  word.  Ah  well!  girls  were  strange 
beings.  So  unreliable.  A  man  never  knew, 
when  she  smiled,  if  she  was  going  to  frown  the 
very  next  minute. 

As  to  that,  Bertrand  was  glad  that  Nico- 
lette had  not  cried,  or  made  a  scene.  He  was 
a  man  now,  and  really  hated  the  sentimental 
episodes  to  which  his  dear  mother  and  even 
Micheline  indulged  in  so  generously.  Poor 
little  Nicolette,  no  doubt  her  life  would  be 
rather  dull  after  this,  as  Micheline  was  not 
really  strong  enough  for  the  violent  exercise  in 
which  Nicolette  revelled  with  all  the  ardour 
of  her  warm  blood  and  healthy  young  body. 
But  no  doubt  she  would  like  the  convent  at 
Avignon,  and  the  society  of  rich,  elegant  girls, 
for  of  a  truth,  as  grandmama  always  said, 
her  manners  had  of  late  become  rather  rough, 


LELIVREDERAISON  55 

under  the  tutelage  of  old  Margai — a  mere 
servant — and  of  her  father,  who  was  no  more 
than  a  peasant.  The  way  she  ran  away  from 
him,  Bertrand,  just  now,  without  saying  a 
proper  "good-bye,"  argued  a  great  want  of 
knowledge  on  her  part  of  the  amenities  of  so- 
cial life.  And  when  he  said  to  her:  "Good- 
bye, Nicolette,  do  not  forget  me!"  she  should 
have  answered  .  .  . 

Ah,  bah!  What  mattered?  It  was  all  over 
now,  thank  the  Lord,  the  good-byes  and  the 
weepings  and  the  admonitions.  The  book  of 
life  lay  open  at  last  before  him.  To-morrow 
he  would  shake  the  dust  of  old  Provence  from 
his  feet.  To-morrow  he  would  begin  to  read. 
Paris!  Rixende!  Wealth!  The  great  big 
world.  Oh,  God !  how  weary  he  was  of  penury 
and  of  restraint ! 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  NAME 

BERTRAND  came  home  for  his  Easter 
holidays  after  he  had  passed  out  of  St. 
Cyr  and  received  his  commission  in  the  King's 
bodyguard :  an  honour  which  he  owed  as  much 
to  his  name  as  to  Madame  de  Mont-Pahon's 
wealth  and  influence.  He  was  only  granted 
two  weeks'  vacation  because  political  condi- 
tions in  Paris  were  in  a  greatly  disturbed  state 
just  then,  owing  to  the  King's  arbitrary  and 
reactionary  policy,  which  caused  almost  as 
much  seething  discontent  as  that  which  pre- 
cipitated the  Revolution  nigh  on  forty  years 
ago.  Louis  XVIII  in  very  truth  was  so  un- 
popular at  this  time,  and  the  assassination 
of  his  nephew,  the  Due  de  Berry,  two  years 
previously,  had  so  preyed  upon  his  mind  that 
he  never  stirred  out  of  his  chateau  de  Ver- 
sailles save  under  a  powerful  escort  of  his 
trusted  bodyguard. 

It  was  therefore  a  matter  of  great  impor- 
tance for  Bertrand's   future  career  that  he 

66 


THE    HONOUR    OF   THE    NAME     57 

should  not  be  too  long  absent  from  duty,  which 
at  any  moment  might  put  him  in  the  way  of 
earning  distinction  for  himself,  and  the  per- 
sonal attention  of  the  King. 

As  it  happened,  when  he  did  come  home 
during  the  spring  of  that  year  1822,  Nicolette 
was  detained  in  the  convent  school  at  Avignon 
because  she  had  measles.  A  very  prosy  affair, 
which  caused  poor  little  Micheline  many  a 
tear. 

She  had  been  so  anxious  that  her  dear  little 
friend  should  see  how  handsome  Bertrand 
had  grown,  and  how  splendid  he  looked  in  his 
beautiful  blue  uniform  all  lavishly  trimmed 
with  gold  lace,  and  the  kepi  with  the  tuft  of 
white  feathers  in  front,  which  gave  him  such 
a  martial  appearance. 

In  truth,  Micheline  was  so  proud  of  her 
brother  that  she  would  have  liked  to  take  him 
round  the  whole  neighbourhood  and  show  him 
to  all  those  who  had  known  him  as  a  reserved 
and  rather  puny  lad.  She  would  above  all 
things  have  loved  to  take  him  across  to  the  mas 
and  let  Janme  Deydier  and  Marga'i  see  him, 
for  then  surely  they  would  write  and  tell  Nico- 
lette about  him.  Bertrand  acquiesced  quite 
humouredly  in  the  idea  that  she  should  thus 
take  him  on  a  grand  tour  to  be  inspected,  and 


58  NICOLETTE 

plans  were  formed  to  go  over  to  Apt,  and  see 
M.  le  Cure  there,  and  Gastinel  B amadou,  the 
mayor  of  the  commune,  who  lived  at  La  Bas- 
tide,  and  whose  son  Ameyric  was  considered 
the  handsomest  lad  of  the  country-side,  and 
the  bravest  and  most  skilful  too.  All  the  girls 
were  in  love  with  him  because  he  could  run 
faster,  jump  higher,  and  throw  the  bar  and 
the  disc  farther  than  any  man  between  the 
Caulon  and  the  Durance,  but  Micheline  knew 
that  as  soon  as  Huguette  or  Madeleine 
or  Rigaude  set  eyes  on  her  Bertrand  they 
would  never  look  on  any  other  man  again. 
And  Bertrand  smiled  and  listened  to  Miche- 
line's  plans,  and  promised  that  he  would  go 
with  her  to  Jaume  Deydier's  or  to  Apt,  or 
whithersoever  she  chose  to  take  him.  But  the 
Easter  holidays  came  and  went:  Father  Sim- 
eon-Luce came  over  from  Manosque  to  cele- 
brate Mass  in  the  chapel  of  the  chateau,  then 
he  went  away  again.  And  after  Easter  the 
weather  turned  cold  and  wet.  It  was  raining 
nearly  every  day,  and  for  one  reason  or  an- 
other it  was  difficult  to  go  over  to  the  mas,  and 
the  expedition  to  Apt  was  an  impossibility  be- 
cause there  was  no  suitable  vehicle  in  the 
coach-house  of  the  chateau,  and  it  was  impos- 


THE    HONOUR   OF   THE    NAME     59 

sible  to  borrow   Jaume   Deydier's   barouche 
until  one  had  paid  him  a  formal  visit. 

And  so  the  time  went  by  and  the  day  was 
at  hand  when  Bertrand  had  to  return  to  Ver- 
sailles. Instead  of  going  in  comfort  in  Dey- 
dier's barouche  as  far  as  Pertuis,  he  went  with 
Jasmin  in  the  cart,  behind  the  old  horse  that 
had  done  work  in  and  about  the  chateau  for 
more  years  than  Bertrand  could  remember. 
The  smart  officer  of  the  King's  bodyguard  sat 
beside  the  old  man-of -all-work,  on  a  wooden 
plank,  with  his  feet  planted  on  the  box  that 
contained  his  gorgeous  uniforms,  and  his  one 
thought  while  the  old  horse  trotted  leisurely 
along  the  rough  mountain  roads,  was  how  good 
it  would  be  to  be  back  at  Versailles.  Visions 
of  the  brilliantly  lighted  salons  floated  tan- 
talisingly  before  his  gaze,  of  the  King  and  the 
Queen,  and  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois,  and  all  the 
beautiful  ladies  of  the  Court,  the  supper  and 
card  parties,  the  Opera  and  the  rides  in  the 
Bois.  And  amidst  all  these  visions  there  was 
one  more  tantalising,  more  alluring  than  the 
rest :  the  vision  of  his  still  unknown  cousin  Rix- 
ende.  She  was  coming  from  the  fashionable 
convent  in  Paris,  where  she  had  been  finishing 
her  education,  in  order  to  spend  the  next  sum- 
mer holidays  with  her  great-aunt,  Mme.  de 


60  NICOLETTE 

Mont-Pahon.  In  his  mind  he  could  see  her 
as  the  real  counterpart  of  the  picture  which 
he  had  loved  ever  since  he  was  a  boy.  Rixende 
of  the  gentian-blue  eyes  and  fair  curly  locks! 
His  Lady  of  the  Laurels.  Rixende — the  heir- 
ess to  the  Mont-Pahons'  millions — who,  with 
her  wealth,  her  influence  and  her  beauty, 
would  help  to  restore  the  glories  of  the  family 
of  Ventadour,  which  to  his  mind  was  still  the 
finest  family  in  France.  With  her  money  he 
would  restore  the  old  feudal  chateau  in  Prov- 
ence, of  which,  despite  its  loneliness  and  di- 
lapidated appearance,  he  was  still  inordinately 
proud. 

Once  more  the  halls  and  corridors  would  re- 
sound with  laughter  and  merry-making,  once 
more  would  gallant  courtiers  whisper  words 
of  love  in  fair  ladies'  ears!  He  and  lovely 
Rixende  would  restore  the  Courts  of  Love 
that  had  been  the  glory  of  old  Provence  in  me- 
diaeval days;  they  would  be  patrons  of  the 
Arts,  and  attract  to  this  fair  corner  of  France 
all  that  was  greatest  among  the  wits,  sweetest 
among  musicians,  most  famous  in  the  world 
of  letters.  Ah!  they  were  lovely  visions  that 
accompanied  Bertrand  on  his  lonely  drive 
through  the  mountain  passes  of  his  boyhood's 
home.  For  as  long  as  he  could,  he  gazed  be- 


THE    HONOUR   OF    THE    NAME     61 

hind  him  on  the  ruined  towers  of  the  old  cha- 
teau, grimly  silhouetted  against  the  afternoon 
sky.  Then,  when  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road  hid 
the  old  owl's  nest  from  view,  he  looked  before 
him,  where  life  beckoned  to  him  full  of  prom- 
ises and  of  coming  joys,  and  where  through  a 
haze  of  fluffy,  cream-coloured  clouds,  he 
seemed  to  see  blue-eyed  Rixende  holding  out 
to  him  a  golden  cornucopia  from  which  fell  a 
constant  stream  of  roses,  each  holding  a  bag 
full  of  gold  concealed  in  its  breast. 

It  was  owing  to  the  war  with  Spain,  and  the 
many  conspiracies  of  the  Carbonari  that  Ber- 
trand  was  unable  for  the  next  three  years  to 
obtain  a  sufficient  extension  of  leave  to  visit 
his  old  home.  He  was  now  a  full  lieutenant 
in  the  King's  bodyguard,  and  Mme.  de  Mont- 
Pahon  wrote  with  keen  enthusiasm  about  his 
appearance  and  his  character,  both  of  which 
had  earned  her  appreciation. 

"It  is  the  dream  of  my  declining  days"  she 
wrote  to  her  sister,  the  old  Comtesse  de  Venta- 
dour,  "that  Bertrand  and  Ritrende  should  be 
united.  Both  these  children  are  very  dear  to 
me:  kinship  and  affection  binds  me  equally  to 
both.  I  am  old  now,  and  sick,  but  my  most 


62  NICOLETTE 

earnest  prayer  to  God  is  to  see  them  happy  ere 
I  close  my  eyes  in  their  last  long  sleep" 

In  another  letter  she  wrote: 

"Bertrand  has  won  my  regard  as  well  as 
my  affection.  In  this  last  affair  at  Belfort, 
whither  the  King's  bodyguard  was  sent  to 
quell  the  conspiracy  of  those  abominable  Car- 
bonari, his  bravery  as  well  as  his  shrewdness 
were  liberally  commented  on.  I  only  wish  he 
would  make  more  headway  in  his  courtship  of 
Rixende.  Of  course  the  child  is  young,  and 
does  not  understand  how  serious  a  thing  life  is: 
but  Bertrand  also  is  too  serious  at  times,  at 
others  he  seems  to  reserve  his  enthusiasm  for 
the  card-table  or  the  pleasure  of  the  chase. 
For  his  sake,  as  well  as  for  that  of  Rixende, 
I  would  not  like  this  marriage,  on  which  I  have 
set  my  heart,  to  be  delayed  too  long/' 

Later  on  she  became  even  more  urgent : 

"The  doctors  tell  me  I  have  not  long  to  live. 
Ah,  well!  my  dear,  I  have  had  my  time,  let 
the  two  children  whom  I  love  have  theirs.  My 
fortune  will  suffice  for  a  brilliant  life  for  them, 
I  make  no  doubt:  but  it  must  remain  in  its 
entirety.  I  will  not  have  Bertrand  squander 


THE    HONOUR   OF    THE    NAME     63 

it  at  cards  or  in  pearl-necklaces  for  the  ladies 
of  the  Opera.  Therefore  hurry  on  the  mar- 
riage on  your  side,  my  good  Margarita,  and  I 
will  do  my  best  on  mine" 

The  old  Comtesse,  with  her  sister's  last  let- 
ter in  her  hand,  hurried  to  her  daughter-in- 
law's  room. 

"You  see,  Marcelle,"  she  said  resolutely, 
after  a  hurried  and  unsympathetic  inquiry  as 
to  the  younger  woman's  health:  "You  see  how 
it  is.  Everything  depends  on  Bertrand.  Sy- 
bille  de  Mont-Pahon  means  to  divide  her 
wealth  between  him  and  Rixende,  but  he  will 
lose  all  if  he  does  not  exert  himself.  Oh!  if  I 
had  been  a  man!"  she  exclaimed,  and  looked 
down  with  an  obvious  glance  of  contempt  on 
the  two  invalids,  mother  and  daughter,  the 
two  puny  props  of  the  tottering  house  of  Ven- 
tadour. 

"Bertrand  can  but  lead  an  honourable  life," 
the  mother  argued  wearily.  "He  is  an  hon- 
ourable man,  but  you  could  not  expect  him  at 
his  age  to  toady  to  an  old  woman  for  the  mere 
sake  of  her  wealth." 

"Who  talks  of  toadying?"  the  old  woman 
exclaimed,  with  an  irritable  note  in  her  harsh 
voice.  "You  are  really  stupid,  Marcelle." 


64  NICOLETTE 

Over  five  years  had  gone  by  since  first  Ber- 
trand  went  away  from  the  old  home  in  Prov- 
ence, driven  as  far  as  Pertuis  in  Deydier's 
barouche,  his  pockets  empty,  and  his  heart  full 
of  longing  for  that  great  world  into  which  he 
was  just  entering.  Five  years  and  more,  and 
now  he  was  more  than  a  man ;  he  was  the  head 
of  the  house  of  Ventadour,  one  of  the  most 
renowned  families  in  France,  who  had  helped 
to  make  history,  and  whose  lineage  could  be 
traced  back  to  the  days  of  Charlemagne,  even 
though,  now — in  the  nineteenth  century — they 
owned  but  a  few  metres  of  barren  land  around 
an  ancient  and  dilapidated  chateau. 

Not  even  grandmama  disputed  Bertrand's 
right  at  this  hour  to  make  use  of  the  Book 
of  Reason  as  he  thought  best,  and  she  had 
promised  him  over  and  over  again  of  late,  by 
written  word,  that  when  next  he  came  to  Ven- 
tadour, she  would  give  him  the  key  of  the  chest 
that  contained  the  family  archives.  To  a  Pro- 
ven9al,  the  key  to  the  Book  of  Reason  is  a  sym- 
bol of  his  own  status  as  head  of  the  house,  and 
to  Bertrand  it  meant  all  that  and  more,  be- 
cause his  pride  in  his  family  and  lineage,  and 
even  in  the  old  barrack  which  he  called  home 
was  the  dominating  factor  in  all  his  actions, 
and  because  he  felt  that  there  could  be  nothing 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     65 

in  his  family  history  that  was  not  worthy  and 
honourable.  There  had  been  secrets  kept 
from  him  while  he  was  a  child,  secrets  in  con- 
nection with  his  father,  and  with  his  great- 
uncle,  Raymond  de  Ventadour,  but  Bertrand 
was  willing  to  admit  that  there  might  have  been 
a  reason  for  this,  one  that  was  good  enough 
to  determine  the  actions  of  grandmama,  who 
was  usually  to  be  trusted  in  all  affairs  that  con- 
cerned the  honour  of  the  family. 

But  somehow  things  did  not  occur  just  as 
Bertrand  had  expected.  His  arrival  at  the 
chateau  was  a  great  event,  of  course,  and  from 
the  first  he  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  being 
treated  as  a  boy,  and  that  even  his  grandmother 
spoke  to  him  of  family  affairs  in  tones  of  lov- 
ing submission  which  went  straight  to  his  heart, 
and  gave  him  that  consciousness  of  importance 
for  which  he  had  been  longing  ever  since  he  had 
left  childhood's  days  behind  him.  But  close 
on  a  fortnight  went  by  before  at  last,  in  defer- 
ence to  his  urgent  demand,  she  gave  him  the 
key  of  the  chest  that  contained  the  family  ar- 
chives. It  was  a  great  moment  for  Bertrand. 
He  would  not  touch  the  chest  while  anyone  was 
in  the  room ;  his  first  delving  into  those  price- 
less treasures  should  have  no  witness  save  the 
unseen  spirit  that  animated  him.  With  an  in- 


66  NICOLETTE 

dulgent  shrug  of  her  aristocratic  shoulders, 
grandmama  left  him  to  himself,  and  Bertrand 
spent  a  delicious  five  minutes,  first  in  turning 
the  key  in  the  old-fashioned  lock  of  the  chest, 
then  lifting  out  the  book,  and  turning  over  its 
time-stained  pages. 

He  was  on  the  lookout  for  records  that 
would  throw  some  light  upon  the  life  and  ad- 
ventures of  his  uncle  Raymond  de  Ventadour, 
whose  name  was  never  mentioned  by  grand- 
mama, save  with  a  sneer.  Bertrand  was  quite 
sure  that  if  the  Book  of  Reason  had  been  kept 
as  it  should,  he  would  learn  something  that 
would  clear  up  the  mystery  that  hung  over  that 
name.  He  was  above  all  anxious  to  find  out 
something  definite  about  his  own  father's 
death,  without  having  recourse  to  the  cruel 
task  of  interrogating  his  mother. 

But  though  the  chest  contained  a  number  of 
births,  baptismal,  marriage  and  death  certifi- 
cates, and  the  book  a  few  records  of  the  po- 
litical events  of  the  past  fifty  years,  there  was 
nothing  there  that  would  throw  any  light  upon 
the  secrets  that  Bertrand  long  to  fathom. 
Nothing  about  Raymond  de  Ventadour,  save 
his  baptismal  certificate  and  a  brief  record  that 
he  fought  under  General  Moreau  in  Germany, 
and  subsequently  in  Egypt.  What  happened 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     67 

to  him  after  that,  where  he  went,  when  he  came 
back — if  he  came  back  at  all — and  when  he 
died,  was  not  chronicled  in  this  book  wherein 
every  passing  event,  however  futile,  if  it  was 
in  any  way  connected  with  the  Ventadours 
had  been  recorded  for  the  past  five  hundred 
years.  In  the  same  way  there  was  but  little 
said  about  Bertrand's  father,  there  was  his 
marriage  certificate  to  Marcelle  de  Cercomans, 
and  that  of  his  death  the  year  of  Micheline's 
birth.  But  that  was  all.  A  few  trinkets  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  chest,  among  these  a  seal- 
ring  with  the  arms  of  the  Ventadours  engraved 
thereon,  and  their  quaint  device,  "mown  amour 
e  moun  noum." 

Bertrand  loved  the  device;  for  his  love  and 
for  his  name,  he  would  in  very  truth  have  sacri- 
ficed life  itself.  He  took  up  the  ring  and 
slipped  it  on  his  finger;  then  he  continued 
to  turn  over  the  pages  of  the  old  book,  still 
hoping  to  extract  from  it  that  knowledge  he 
so  longed  to  possess. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  soft  foot-tread  behind 
him  roused  him  from  his  meditations,  and  two 
loving  arms  were  creeping  round  his  neck : 

"Are  you  ready,  Bertrand?"  Micheline 
asked. 

"Ready  for  what?"  he  retorted. 


68  NICOLETTE 

"You  said  you  would  come  over  to  the  mas 
with  me  this  afternoon." 

Bertrand  frowned,  and  then  with  obvious 
moodiness,  he  picked  up  the  family  chronicle, 
and  went  to  lock  it  up  in  the  big  dower-chest. 

"You  are  coming,  Bertrand,  are  you  not?" 
Micheline  insisted  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
throat. 

"Not  to-day,  Micheline,"  he  replied  after 
awhile. 

"Bertrand!" 

The  cry  came  with  such  a  note  of  reproach 
that  the  frown  deepened  on  his  forehead. 

"Grandmama  has  such  a  violent  objection 
to  my  going,"  he  said,  somewhat  shame- 
facedly. 

"And  you — at  your  age "  Micheline 

broke  in  more  bitterly  than  she  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  brother  in  her  life;  "you  are  going  to 
allow,  grandmama,  an  old  woman,  to  dictate 
to  you  as  to  where  you  should  go,  and  where 
not?" 

Bertrand  at  this  taunt  aimed  at  his  dignity 
had  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  a 
look  of  obstinacy  suddenly  hardened  his  face, 
making  it  seem  quite  set  and  old. 

"There  is  no  question,"  he  said  coldly,  "of 
anybody  dictating  to  me:  it  is  a  question  of 


THE   HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     69 

etiquette  and  of  usage.  It  was  Jaume  Dey- 
dier's  duty  in  the  first  instance  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  me." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  etiquette  or  of  usage, 
Bertrand,"  the  girl  retorted  hotly,  "but  of 
Nicolette  our  friend  and  playmate.  I  do  not 
know  what  keeps  Jaume  Deydier  from  setting 
foot  inside  the  chateau,  but  God  knows  that 
he  owes  us  nothing,  so  why  should  he  come? 
We  on  the  other  hand  owe  him  countless  kind- 
nesses and  boundless  generosity,  which  we  can 
never  repay  save  by  kindliness  and  courtesy. 
Why !  when  you  were  first  at  St.  Cyr " 

"Micheline!" 

The  word  rang  out  hard  and  trenchant,  as 
the  old  Comtesse  sailed  into  the  room.  Miche- 
line at  once  held  her  tongue,  cowed  as  she  al- 
ways was  in  the  presence  of  her  autocratic 
grandmother. 

"What  is  the  discussion  about?"  grandmama 
asked  coldly. 

"My  going  to  the  mas,"  Bertrand  replied. 

"To  pay  your  respects  to  Jaume  Deydier?" 
she  asked,  with  a  sneer. 

"To  see  Nicolette,"  Micheline  broke  in 
boldly.  "Bertrand's  oldest  friend." 

"Quite  a  nice  child,"  the  old  Comtesse  owned 


70  NICOLETTE 

with  ironical  graciousness.  "She  is  at  liberty 
to  come  and  see  Bertrand  when  she  likes." 

"She  is  too  proud "  Micheline  hazarded, 

then  broke  down  suddenly  in  her  speech,  be- 
cause grandmama  had  raised  her  lorgnette, 
and  was  staring  at  her  so  disconcertingly  that 
Micheline  felt  tears  of  mortification  rising  to 
her  eyes. 

"So,"  grandmama  said  with  that  biting  sar- 
casm which  hurt  so  terribly,  and  which  she 
knew  so  well  how  to  throw  into  her  voice.  "So 
Mademoiselle  Deydier  is  proud,  is  she?  Too 
proud  to  pay  her  respects  to  the  Comtesse  de 
Ventadour.  Ah,  well!  let  her  stay  at  home 
then.  It  is  not  for  a  Ventadour  to  hold  out 
a  hand  of  reconciliation  to  one  of  the  Dey- 
diers." 

"Reconciliation,  grandmama?"  Bertrand 
broke  in  quickly.  "Has  there  been  a  quarrel 
then?" 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Bertrand's 
keenly  searching  eyes  as  if  the  old  Comtesse's 
usually  magftificent  composure  was  slightly 
ruffled.  Certain  it  is  that  a  delicate  flush  rose 
to  her  withered  cheeks,  and  her  retort  did  not 
come  with  that  trenchant  rapidity  to  which 
she  had  accustomed  her  family  and  her  house- 
hold. However,  the  hesitation — if  hesitation 


there  was — was  only  momentary:  an  instant 
later  she  had  shrugged  her  shoulders,  elevated 
her  eyebrows  with  her  own  inimitably  grandi- 
ose air,  and  riposted  coolly: 

"Quarrel?  My  dear  Bertrand?  Surely  you 
are  joking.  How  could  there  be  a  quarrel  be- 
tween us  and  the — er — Deydiers?  The  old 
man  chooses  to  hold  himself  aloof  from  the 
chateau:  but  that  is  right  and  proper,  and  no 
doubt  he  knows  his  place.  We  cannot  have 
those  sort  of  people  frequenting  our  house  in 
terms  of  friendship — especially  if  your  cousin 
Rixende  should  pay  us  a  visit  one  of  these  days. 
Once  an  intimacy  is  set  up,  it  is  very  difficult 
to  break  off  again — and  surely  you  would  not 
wish  that  oil-dealer's  child  to  meet  your  fu- 
ture wife  on  terms  of  equality?" 

"Rixende  is  not  that  yet,"  Bertrand  rejoined 
almost  involuntarily,  "and  if  she  comes 
here " 

"She  will  have  to  come  here,"  grandmama 
said  in  her  most  decided  tone.  "Sybille  de 
Mont-Pahon  wishes  it,  and  it  is  right  and 
proper  that  Rixende  should  be  brought  here 
to  pay  her  respects  to  me — and  to  your 
mother,"  she  added  as  with  an  after-thought. 

"But " 


72  NICOLETTE 

"But  what,"  she  asked,  for  he  seemed  to 
hesitate. 

"Rixende  is  so  fastidious,"  Bert  rand  said 
moodily.  "She  has  been  brought  up  in  the 
greatest  possible  luxury.  This  old  house  with 
its  faded  furniture " 

"This  old  house  with  its  faded  furniture," 
grandmama  broke  in  icily,  "has  for  centuries 
been  the  home  of  the  Comtes  de  Ventadour,  a 
family  whose  ancestors  claimed  kinship  with 
kings.  Surely  it  is  good  enough  to  shelter  the 
daughter  of  a — of  a — what  is  their  name? — 
a  Peyron-Bompar!  My  good  Bertrand,  your 
objections  are  both  futile  and  humiliating  to 
us  all.  Thank  God !  we  have  not  sunk  so  low, 
that  we  cannot  entertain  a  Mademoiselle — er 
— Peyron-Bompar  and  her  renegade  father  in 
a  manner  befitting  our  rank." 

Grandmama  had  put  on  her  grandest  man- 
ner, and  further  argument  was,  of  course,  use- 
less. Bertrand  said  nothing  more,  only  stood 
by,  frowning  moodily.  Micheline  had  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  the  shelter  of  the  window 
recess.  From  here  she  could  still  see  Bertrand, 
could  watch  every  play  of  emotion  on  his  tell- 
tale face.  She  felt  intensely  sorry  for  him, 
and  ashamed  for  him  as  well  as  for  herself. 
But  above  all  for  him.  He  was  a  man,  he 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     73 

should  act  as  a  man;  whilst  she  was  only  a 
weak,  misshapen,  ugly  creature  with  a  bound- 
less capacity  for  suffering,  and  no  more  cour- 
age than  a  cat.  Even  now  she  was  conscious 
right  through  her  pity  for  Bertrand  which 
dominated  every  other  feeling — of  an  intense 
sense  of  relief  that  the  tattered  curtain  hung 
between  her  and  grandmama,  and  concealed 
her  from  the  irascible  old  lady's  view. 

She  tried  to  meet  Bertrand's  eyes:  but  he 
purposely  evaded  hers.  As  for  him,  he  felt 
vaguely  ashamed  he  knew  not  exactly  of  what. 
He  dared  not  look  at  Micheline,  fearing  to 
read  either  reproach  or  pity  in  her  gaze ;  either 
of  which  would  have  galled  him.  For  the  first 
time,  too,  in  his  life,  he  felt  out  of  tune  with 
the  ideals  of  the  old  Comtesse,  whom  he  re- 
vered as  the  embodiment  of  all  the  splendours 
of  the  Ventadours.  Now  his  pride  was  up  in 
arms  against  her  for  her  assumption  of  con- 
trol. Where  was  his  vaunted  manhood?  Was 
he — the  head  of  the  house — to  be  dictated  to  by 
women?  Already  he  was  lashing  himself  up 
into  a  state  of  rebellion  and  of  fury.  Planning 
a  sudden  assertion  of  his  own  authority,  when 
his  grandmother's  voice,  hard  and  trenchant, 
acted  like  a  cold  douche  upon  his  heated  tem- 
per, and  sobered  him  instantly. 


74  NICOLETTE 

"To  revert  to  the  subject  of  those  Deydiers," 
she  said  coldly,  "my  sister  Mme.  de  Mont- 
Pahon  has  made  it  a  point  that  all  intimacy 
shall  cease  between  you  and  them,  before  she 
would  allow  of  Rixende's  engagement  to  you." 

"But  why?"  Bertrand  exclaimed  almost  in- 
voluntarily. "In  Heaven's  name,  why?" 

"You  could  ask  her,"  grandmama  retorted 
quietly. 

"Mme  de  Mont-Pahon  must  understand 
that  I  seek  my  own  friends,  how  and  where  I 
choose " 

"Your  great-aunt  would  probably  retort 
that  she  will  then  seek  her  heir  also  where 
and  how  she  chooses — as  well  as  Rixende's 
future  husband " 

Then  as  Bertrand  in  the  excess  of  his  shame 
and  mortification  buried  his  head  in  his  hands, 
she  went  up  to  him,  and  placed  her  wrinkled 
aristocratic  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"There,  there,"  she  said  almost  gently, 
"don't  be  childish,  my  dear  Bertrand.  Alas! 
when  one  is  poor,  one  is  always  kissing  the  rod. 
All  you  want  now  is  patience.  Once  Rixende 
is  your  wife,  and  my  obstinate  sister  has  left 
her  millions  to  you  both,  and  she  and  I  have 
gone  to  join  the  great  majority,  you  can  please 
yourself  in  the  matter  of  your  friends." 


"It  is  so  shameful  to  be  poor,"  Bertrand 
murmured  bitterly. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  the  old  woman  assented  dryly. 
"That  is  the  reason  why  I  wish  to  drag  you 
out  of  all  this  poverty  and  humiliation.  But 
do  not  make  the  task  too  hard  for  me,  Ber- 
trand. I  am  old,  and  your  mother  is  feeble. 
If  I  were  to  go  you  would  soon  drift  down 
the  road  of  destiny  in  the  footsteps  of  your 
father." 

"My  father?" 

"Your  father  like  you  was  weak  and  vacil- 
lating. Sunk  in  the  slough  of  debt,  enmeshed 
in  a  network  of  obligations  which  he  had  not 
the  moral  strength  to  meet,  he  blew  out  his 
brains,  when  broke  the  dawn  of  the  inevitable 
day  of  reckoning." 

"It  is  false!"  Bertrand  cried  impulsively. 

He  had  jumped  to  his  feet. 

Clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  edge  of  the 
table,  he  faced  the  old  Comtesse,  his  eyes  gaz- 
ing horror-struck  upon  that  stern  impassive 
face,  on  which  scarce  a  tremor  had  passed  while 
she  delivered  this  merciless  judgment  on  her 
own  son. 

"It  is  false!"  the  young  man  reiterated. 

"It  is  true,  Bertrand,"  the  old  woman  re- 
joined quietly.  "The  ring  which  you  now 


76  NICOLETTE 

wear,  I  myself  took  off  his  finger,  after  the 
pistol  dropped  from  his  lifeless  hand." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
more,  when  a  long-drawn  sigh,  a  moan,  and  an 
ominous  thud,  stayed  the  words  upon  her  lips. 
Bertrand  looked  up  at  once,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment darted  across  the  room.  There  lay  his 
mother,  half  crouching  against  the  door  frame 
to  which  she  had  clung  when  she  felt  herself 
swooning.  Bertrand  was  down  on  his  knees 
in  an  instant,  and  Micheline  came  as  fast  as 
she  could  to  his  side. 

"Quick,  Micheline,  help  me!"  Bertrand 
whispered  hurriedly.  "She  is  as  light  as  a 
feather.  I'll  carry  her  to  her  room." 

The  only  one  who  had  remained  quite  un- 
moved was  the  old  Comtesse.  When  she  heard 
the  moan,  and  then  the  thud,  she  glanced 
coolly  over  her  shoulder,  and  seeing  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law, crouching  helpless  in  the  doorway, 
she  only  said  dryly : 

"My  good  Marcelle,  why  make  a  fuss?  The 
boy  was  bound  to  know " 

But  already  Bertrand  had  lifted  the  poor 
feeble  body  in  his  arms,  and  was  carrying  his 
mother  along  the  corridor  to  her  own  room. 
Here  he  deposited  her  on  the  sofa,  on  which 
in  truth  she  spent  most  of  her  days,  and  here 


THE    HONOUR   OF   THE    NAME     77 

she  lay  now  with  her  head  against  the  pillows, 
her  face  so  pale  and  drawn  that  Bertrand  felt 
a  great  wave  of  love  and  sympathy  for  her 
surging  in  his  heart. 

"Poor  little  mother,"  he  said  tenderly,  and 
knelt  by  her  side,  chafing  her  cold  hands,  and 
gazing  anxiously  into  her  face.  She  opened 
her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him.  She  seemed  not 
to  know  at  first  what  had  happened. 

"Bertrand!"  she  murmured,  as  if  astonished 
to  see  him  there. 

Her  astonishment  in  itself  was  an  involun- 
tary reproach,  so  very  little  of  his  time  did 
Bertrand  spend  with  his  sad-eyed,  ailing 
mother.  A  sharp  pang  of  remorse  went  right 
through  him  as  he  noted,  for  the  first  time, 
how  very  aged  and  worn  she  had  become  since 
last  he  had  been  at  home.  Tears  now  were 
pouring  down  her  cheeks,  and  he  put  out  his 
arms,  with  a  vague  longing  to  draw  her  ach- 
ing head  to  his  breast,  and  let  her  rest  there, 
while  he  would  comfort  her.  She  saw  the  ges- 
ture, and  the  ghost  of  a  smile  lit  up  her  pale, 
wan  face,  and  in  her  eyes  there  came  a  pathetic 
look  as  of  a  dog  asking  to  be  forgiven.  With 
a  sudden  strange  impulse  she  seized  his  hand, 
and  drew  it  up  to  her  lips.  He  snatched  it 
away  ashamed  and  remorseful,  but  she  recap- 


78  NICOLETTE 

tured  it,  and  began  stroking  it  gently,  ten- 
derly: and  all  the  while  her  spare,  narrow 
shoulders  shook  with  spasms  of  uncontrolled 
sobbing,  just  like  a  child  after  it  has  had  a  big, 
big  cry.  Then  suddenly  the  smile  vanished 
from  her  face,  the  tender  look  from  her  eyes, 
and  an  expression  of  horror  crept  into  them 
as  they  fastened  themselves  upon  his  hand. 

"That  ring,  Bertrand,"  she  cried  hoarsely, 
"take  it  off." 

"My  father's  ring?"  he  asked.  "I  want  to 
wear  it." 

"No,  no,  don't  wear  it,  my  dear  lamb,"  his 
mother  entreated,  and  moaned  piteously  just 
as  if  she  were  in  pain.  "Your  grandmother 
took  it  off  his  dear,  dead  hand — oh,  she  is  cruel 
— cruel — and  without  mercy  .  .  .  she  took  it 

off  after  she Oh,  my  boy !  my  boy !  will  you 

ever  forgive?" 

His  one  thought  was  just  to  comfort  her. 
Awhile  ago,  when  first  his  grandmother  had 
told  him,  he  had  felt  bitterly  sore.  His  father 
dying  a  shameful  death  by  his  own  hand !  The 
shame  of  it  was  almost  intolerable!  And  in 
the  brief  seconds  that  elapsed  between  the  ter- 
rible revelation  and  the  moment  when  he  had 
to  expend  all  his  energies  in  looking  after  his 
mother,  had  held  a  veritable  inferno  of  humili- 


THE   HONOUR   OF   THE    NAME     79 

ation  for  him.  As  in  a  swift  and  sudden  vision 
he  saw  flitting  before  him  all  sorts  of  little 
signs  and  indications  that  had  puzzled  him  in 
the  past,  but  of  which  he  had  ceased  to  think 
almost  as  soon  as  they  had  occurred,  a  look  of 
embarrassment  here,  one  of  pity  there,  his 
grandmother's  sneers,  his  mother's  entreaties. 
He  saw  it  all,  all  of  a  sudden.  People  who 
knew  pitied  him — or  else  they  sneered.  The 
bitterness  of  it  had  been  awful.  But  now  he 
forgot  all  that.  With  his  mother  lying  there 
so  crushed,  so  weak,  so  helpless,  all  that  was 
noble  and  chivalrous  in  his  nature  gained  the 
upper  hand  over  his  resentment. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  forgive,  mother  dear," 
he  said,  "I  am  not  my  father's  judge." 

"He  was  so  kind  and  good,"  the  poor  soul 
went  on  with  pathetic  eagerness,  "so  gener- 
ous. He  only  borrowed  in  order  to  give  to 
others.  People  were  always  sponging  on  him. 
He  never  could  say  no — to  any  one — and  of 
course  we  had  no  money  to  spare,  to  give 
away.  ..." 

Bertrand  frowned. 

"So,"  he  said  quite  quietly,  "he — my  father 
— borrowed  some?  He — he  had  debts?" 

"Yes." 

"Many?" 


80  NICOLETTE 

"Alas." 

"He — he  did  not  pay  them  before  he ?" 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  slowly  shook  her 
head. 

"And,"  Bertrand  asked,  "since  then?  since 
my  father — died,  have  his  debts  been  paid?" 

"We  could  not  pay  them,"  his  mother  re- 
plied in  a  tone  of  dull,  aching  hopelessness, 
"we  had  no  money.  Your  grandmother " 

"Grandmama,"  he  broke  in,  "said  though 
we  were  poor,  we  could  yet  afford  to  enter- 
tain our  relatives  as  befitted  our  rank.  How 
can  that  be  if — if  we  are  still  in  debt?" 

"Your  grandmother  is  quite  right,  my  dear 
boy,  quite  right."  Marcelle  de  Ventadour 
argued  with  pathetic  eagerness;  "she  knows 
best.  We  must  do  our  utmost — we  must  all 
do  our  very  utmost  to  bring  about  your  mar- 
riage with  Rixende  de  Peyron-Bompar.  Your 
great-aunt  has  set  her  heart  on  it,  she  has — 
she  has,  I  know,  made  it  a  condition — your 
grandmother  knows  about  it — she  and  Mme. 
de  Mont-Pahon  have  talked  it  over  together — 
Mme.  de  Mont-Pahon  will  make  you  her  lega- 
tee on  condition  that  you  marry  Rixende." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Bertrand  said  nothing. 
He  had  jumped  to  his  feet  and  stood  at  the 


THE   HONOUR   OF   THE    NAME    81 

foot  of  the  couch,  with  head  bent  and  a  deep 
frown  on  his  brow. 

"I  wish  you  had  not  told  me  that,  mother," 
he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  love  Rixende,  and  now  it  will  seem  as 


"As  if  what?" 

"As  if  I  wooed  her  for  the  sake  of  Mme.  de 
Mont-Pahon's  money." 

"That  is  foolishness,  Bertrand,"  Mme.  de 
Ventadour  said,  with  more  energy  than  was 
habitual  to  her.  "Let  us  suppose  that  I  said 
nothing.  And  your  grandmother  may  be 
wrong.  Mme.  de  Mont-Pahon  may  only  wish 
for  the  marriage  because  of  her  affection  for 
you  and  Rixende." 

"You  wish  it,  too,  mother,  of  course?"  Ber- 
trand said. 

The  mother  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  longing. 

"Wish  it,  my  dear?"  she  rejoined.  "Wish 
it?  Why,  it  would  turn  the  hell  of  my  life  into 
a  real  heaven!" 

"Even  though,"  he  insisted,  "even  though 
until  that  marriage  is  accomplished,  we  cannot 
hope  to  pay  off  any  of  my  father's  debts,  even 
though  for  the  next  year,  at  least,  we  must 
go  on  spending  more  money  and  more  money, 


82  NICOLETTE 

borrow  more  and  more,  to  keep  me  idling  in 
Paris  and  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  Mme.  de 
Mont-Pahon." 

"We  must  do  it,  Bertrand,"  she  said  ear- 
nestly. "Your  grandmother  says  that  we  have 
to  think  of  our  name,  not  of  ourselves;  that  it 
is  the  future  that  counts,  and  not  the  present." 

"But  you,  mother,  what  is  your  idea  about 
it  all?" 

"Oh,  I,  my  dear?  I?  I  count  for  so  little 
— what  does  it  matter  what  I  think?" 

"It  matters  a  lot  to  me." 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  sighed  again.  For 
a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  she  would  make  of 
her  son  a  confidant  of  all  her  hopes,  her  secret 
longings,  her  spiritless  repinings;  as  if  she 
would  tell  him  of  what  she  thought  and  what 
she  planned  during  those  hours  and  days  that 
she  spent  on  her  couch,  listless  and  idle.  But 
the  habits  of  a  lifetime  cannot  be  shaken  off 
in  a  moment,  even  under  the  stress  of  great 
emotion,  and  Marcelle  had  been  too  long  under 
the  domination  of  her  mother-in-law  to  ven- 
ture on  an  independent  train  of  thought. 

"My  dear  lamb,"  she  said  tenderly;  "I  only 
pray  for  your  happiness — and  I  feel  that  your 
grandmother  knows  best." 

Bertrand  gave  a  quick,  impatient  little  sigh. 


THE   HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     83 

"What  we  have  to  do,"  his  mother  resumed 
more  calmly  after  a  while,  "is  to  try  and  wipe 
away  the  shame  that  clings  around  your  fa- 
ther's memory." 

"We  cannot  do  that  unless  we  pay  what  we 
owe,"  he  retorted. 

"We  cannot  do  that,  Bertrand,"  she  re- 
joined earnestly.  "We  have  not  the  money. 
At  the  time  of — of  your  father's  death  the 
creditors  took  everything  from  us  that  they 
could :  we  were  left  with  nothing — nothing  but 
this  old  owl's  nest.  It,  too,  had  been  heavily 
mortgaged,  but — but  a — but  a  kind  friend  paid 
off  the  mortgage,  then  allowed  us  to  stay  on 
here." 

"A  kind  friend,"  Bertrand  asked.    "Who?" 

"I — don't  know,"  his  mother  replied  after 
an  imperceptible  moment's  hesitation.  "Your 
grandmother  knows  about  it,  she  has  always 
kept  control  of  our  money.  We  must  leave  it 
to  her.  She  knows  best." 

Then,  as  Bertrand  relapsed  into  silence,  she 
insisted  more  earnestly: 

"You  do  think  that  your  grandmother  knows 
best,  do  you  not,  Bertrand?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  with  an  impatient  sigh, 
and  turned  away. 

It  was  then  that  he  caught  sight  of  Micheline 


84  NICOLETTE 

— Micheline  who,  as  was  her  wont,  had  with- 
drawn silently  into  the  nearest  window  recess, 
and  had  sat  there,  patient  and  watchful,  until 
such  time  as  it  pleased  some  one  to  take  notice 
of  her. 

"Micheline,"  Bertrand  said,  "have  you  been 
here  all  the  time?" 

"All  the  time,"  she  replied  simply. 

"It  is  getting  late,"  he  remarked,  and  gazed 
out  of  the  window  to  distant  Luberon,  behind 
whose  highest  peak  the  sunset  had  already 
lighted  his  crimson  fire. 

"Too  late  to  go  over  to  the  mas  this  after- 
noon," he  added  decisively. 

A  look  of  great  joy  lit  up  Micheline's  peaky 
little  face. 

"Then  you  are  coming,  Bertrand,"  she  cried 
impulsively. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said,  "because  it  is  late. 
But  to-morrow  we'll  go  together.  I  would 
like  to — to  thank  Jaume  Deydier  for " 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  his  mother  broke  in  anxious- 
ly, "there  is  nothing  for  which  you  need  thank 
Jaume  Daydier.  Your  grandmother  would 
noi  wish  it." 

"No  one,"  Bertrand  said  emphatically, 
"may  dictate  to  me  on  a  point  of  honour.  I 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    NAME     85 

know  where  my  duty  lies.  To-morrow  I  am 
going  to  the  mas." 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour's  pale  face  took  on 
an  expression  of  painful  anxiety. 

"If  she  thought  I  had  said  anything,"  she 
murmured. 

Bertrand  bent  down  and  kissed  her  ten- 
derly. 

"Grandmama  shall  know  nothing,"  he  said 
reassuringly;  "but  for  once  I  must  act  as  I 
wish,  not  as  she  commands.  As  you  said  just 
now,  mother  dear,  we  must  not  think  of  our- 
selves, but  of  our  name,  and  we  must  try  to 
wipe  away  the  shame  that  clings  round  my 
father's  memory." 

He  tried  to  say  this  quietly,  with  as  little 
bitterness  as  possible,  but  in  the  end  his  voice 
broke,  and  he  ran  quickly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DESPATCH 

MECHELINE  was  happy  once  more. 
For  a  little  while — oh!  a  very  little 
while — this  afternoon  her  idol  had  tottered  on 
the  pedestal  upon  which  she  had  placed  him. 
The  brother  whom  she  worshipped,  admired, 
looked  up  to,  with  all  the  ardour  and  enthusi- 
asm of  her  reserved  nature,  was  perhaps  not 
quite  so  perfect  as  her  affection  had  painted 
him.  He  seemed  almost  as  if  he  were  proud 
and  ungrateful,  too  proud  to  renew  those  de- 
licious ties  of  childish  friendship  which  she, 
Micheline,  looked  on  as  almost  sacred. 

But  Bert  rand  did  not  know  that  it  was  in 
truth  Jaume  Deydier  who,  during  those  try- 
ing years  at  St.  Cyr,  had  generously  paid  the 
debts  which  the  young  cadet  had  thoughtlessly 
contracted — dragged  as  he  had  been  into  a 
vortex  of  fashionable  life  where  every  one  of 
his  comrades  was  richer  than  he.  Bertrand, 
driven  to  distraction  by  the  pressure  of  mone- 
tary difficulties,  had  confessed  to  Micheline, 


THE    DESPATCH  87 

and  Micheline  had  quite  naturally  gone  with 
the  sad  story  to  her  bosom  friend,  Nicolette. 
She  had  wept,  and  Nicolette  had  wept,  and 
the  two  girls  fell  into  one  another's  arms  and 
then  thought  and  planned  how  best  Bertrand 
could  be  got  out  of  his  difficulties  without  ref- 
erence to  grandmama.  And  lo!  and  behold, 
Bertrand  presently  received  five  thousand 
francs  from  his  dear  sister  Micheline.  They 
were,  she  darkly  hinted,  the  proceeds  of  cer- 
tain rigid  economies  which  she  had  effected  in 
the  management  of  her  pin-money.  Bertrand 
accepted  both  money  and  explanation  without 
much  compunction,  but  unfortunately  through 
his  own  indiscretion,  grandmama  got  to  hear 
of  his  debts  and  of  the  five  thousand  francs. 
It  was,  of  course,  impossible  to  deceive  grand- 
mama  for  long.  Within  half  an  hour  the  true 
secret  of  Bertrand's  benefactor  was  wrung  out 
of  the  unwilling  Micheline. 

That  a  young  Comte  de  Ventadour  should 
make  debts  whilst  he  was  at  St.  Cyr  was  a 
perfectly  proper  and  natural  state  of  things; 
avarice  or  thrift  would  have  been  a  far  greater 
crime  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  Comtesse,  than 
the  borrowing  of  a  few  thousands  from  bour- 
geois tradesmen  who  could  well  afford  it,  with- 
out much  knowledge  as  to  how  those  thou- 


88  NICOLETTE 

sands  would  be  repaid.  Therefore  she  never 
thought  of  blaming  Bertrand.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  was  very  severe  with  Micheline,  not 
so  much  for  having  aroused  Nicolette's  sym- 
pathy on  behalf  of  Bertrand,  as  for  continuing 
this  friendship  with  the  people  at  the  mas, 
which  she — grandmama — thought  degrading. 
And  there  the  matter  ended. 

Jaume  Deydier  was  passing  rich — was  the 
old  Comtesse's  argument — he  and  his  forbears 
had  enriched  themselves  at  the  expense  of 
their  feudal  lords,  grabbing  their  lands  when- 
ever opportunity  arose.  No  doubt  the  pres- 
ent owner  of  those  splendid  estates  which  once 
had  belonged  to  the  Comtes  de  Ventadour, 
felt  some  compunction  in  knowing  that  the 
present  scion  of  that  ancient  race  was  in 
financial  difficulties,  and  no  doubt,  too,  that  his 
compunction  led  to  a  tardy  liberality.  It  all 
was  perfectly  right  and  just.  Margarita  de 
Ventadour's  own  arguments  completely  eased 
her  conscience.  But  she  did  not  enlighten 
Bertrand.  The  boy  was  hot-headed,  he  might 
do  something  foolish  and  humiliating.  The 
money  must  be  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course: 
grandmama  outwardly  must  know  nothing 
about  it.  Nor  Bertrand. 

And  so  Bertrand  was  kept  in  the  dark  as 


THE    DESPATCH  89 

to  this  and  other  matters  which  were  far  more 
important. 

Even  to-day  he  had  been  told  nothing:  he 
had  only  guessed.  A  word  from  Micheline 
about  St.  Cyr,  one  from  his  mother  about  the 
kind  friend  who  had  saved  the  old  chateau 
from  the  hands  of  the  creditors  had  set  his 
young  mind  speculating,  but  that  was  all. 

There  was  much  of  his  grandmother's  tem- 
perament in  Bertrand;  much  of  that  racial 
pride  of  family  and  arrogance  of  caste,  which 
not  even  the  horrors  of  the  Revolution  had 
wholly  eradicated.  But  underlying  that  pride 
and  arrogance  there  were  in  Bertrand  de 
Ventadour  some  fine  aspirations  and  impulses 
of  manhood  and  chivalry,  such  as  the  one 
which  caused  him  to  declare  his  intention  of 
visiting  Jaume  Deydier  immediately. 
.  Micheline  was  now  quite  happy:  for  a  little 
while  she  had  almost  thought  the  beloved 
brother  vain  and  ungrateful.  Now  her  heart 
was  already  full  of  excuses  for  him.  He  was 
coming  on  the  morrow  with  her  to  see  Nico- 
lette.  It  was  perhaps  a  little  late  to-day. 
They  had  their  dinner  early  at  the  mas,  and 
it  wrould  not  do  to  interrupt  them  all  at  their 
meal.  But  to-morrow  she  and  Bertrand 
would  go  over  in  the  morning,  and  spend  a 


90  NICOLETTE 

long,  happy  day  in  the  dear  old  house,  or  in 
the  garden  under  the  shade  of  the  wild  vine 
just  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  past. 

The  evening  was  a  glorious  one.  It  seemed 
as  if  summer,  in  these  her  declining  days,  was 
donning  her  most  gorgeous  garb  to  dazzle  the 
eyes  of  mortals,  ere  she  sank,  dying  into  the 
arms  of  autumn.  One  or  two  early  frosts  had 
touched  the  leaves  of  the  mountain-ash  with 
gold  and  the  hips  and  haws  on  the  wild  rose- 
bushes were  of  a  dazzling  crimson.  And  so 
good  to  eat! 

Micheline  who  was  quite  happy  now,  was 
picking  them  in  big  baskets  full  to  take  over 
to  Margai,  who  made  such  delicious  preserves 
from  them.  Overhead  the  starlings  were  mak- 
ing a  deafening  noise ;  the  olives  were  plentiful 
this  year  and  very  nearly  ripe,  and  a  flock  of 
these  chattering  birds  had  descended  upon  the 
woods  around  the  chateau  and  were  eating 
their  fill.  The  evening  was  drawing  in  rap- 
idly, in  this  land  where  twilight  is  always 
short.  Luberon  frowning  and  majestic  had 
long  since  hidden  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  way  out  to  the  east  the  moon,  looking  no 
more  substantial  than  a  small  round  fluffy 
cloud,  gave  promise  of  a  wonderful  night. 
Looking  straight  across  the  valley  Micheline 


THE    DESPATCH  91 

could  glimpse  the  whitewashed  walls  of  the 
old  mas  gleaming,  rose-tinted  by  the  after- 
glow, above  the  terraced  gradients,  and 
through  the  curtains  of  dwarf  olive  trees. 
She  knew  that  at  a  certain  window  into  which 
a  climbing  crimson  rose  peeped  in,  blossom- 
laden,  Xicolette  would  be  sitting  at  this  hour, 
gazing  across  the  valley  to  the  towers  of  the 
old  chateau  where  she  had  spent  so  many 
happy  days  in  the  past.  It  almost  seemed  to 
Micheline  that  despite  the  distance  she  could 
see,  in  a  framework  of  tangled  roses,  Nico- 
lette's  brown  curls  turned  to  gold  by  the  last 
kiss  of  the  setting  sun,  and  down  in  the  garden 
the  arbour  draped  in  a  mantle  of  disorderly 
vine,  which  flaunted  its  riotous  colours,  its 
purples  and  chromes  and  crimsons,  in  the 
midst  of  the  cool  grey-greens  of  stately  pine 
and  feathery  mimosa.  Anon,  scared  by  the 
sudden  sharp  report  of  a  distant  gun,  the  host 
of  starlings  rose  with  strident  cries  and  like  a 
thin  black  cloud  spread  itself  over  the  moun- 
tain-side, united  and  disintegrated  and  united 
again,  then  vanished  up  the  valley.  After 
which  all  was  still. 

Micheline  put  down  her  basket  and  throw- 
ing out  her  frail,  flat  chest  she  breathed  into 
her  lungs  the  perfumed  evening  air,  fragrant 


92  NICOLETTE 

with  the  scent  of  lavender  and  wild  thyme: 
and  with  a  gesture  of  tenderness  and  longing, 
she  spread  out  her  arms,  as  if  she  would  enfold 
in  a  huge  embrace  all  that  was  beautiful  and 
loving,  and  tender  in  this  world  that,  hitherto, 
had  held  so  few  joys  for  her.  And  while  she 
stood,  thus  silent  and  entranced,  there  de- 
scended upon  the  wide  solitude  around  the 
perfect  mysterious  hush  of  evening,  that  hush 
which  seems  most  absolute  at  this  hour  when 
the  crackling,  tiny  twigs  on  dead  branches 
shiver  at  touch  of  the  breeze,  and  the  hum  of 
cockchafers  fills  the  air  with  its  drowsy  buzz. 

Suddenly  Micheline's  attention  was  arrested 
by  strange  happenings  on  the  road,  way  down 
below.  A  horseman  had  come  in  sight. 
When  Micheline  first  caught  sight  of  him,  he 
was  riding  at  full  speed,  but  presently  he 
checked  his  horse  and  looked  about  him,  after 
which  he  deliberately  turned  up  the  rough 
road  which  led,  winding  up  the  mountain-side, 
to  the  gate  of  the  chateau. 

The  man  was  dressed  in  a  bottle-green  coat 
which  had  some  gold  lace  about  it;  he  wore 
drab  breeches  and  his  boots  and  coat  were 
powdered  with  dust  as  if  he  had  come  a  long 
way.  Micheline  also  noted  that  he  had  a 
leather  wallet  slung  by  a  strap  around  his 


THE    DESPATCH  93 

shoulders.  Anon  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road  hid 
the  horseman  from  view. 

The  young  girl  was  conscious  of  a  pleasant 
thrill  of  expectation.  Visitors  at  the  old  cha- 
teau were  a  rare  occurrence,  and  the  lonely 
rider  was  obviously  coming  here,  as  the  rough 
road  led  nowhere  else.  Though  she  could  no 
longer  see  him,  she  could  hear  the  thud  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  drawing  nearer  every  moment. 

The  main  entrance  of  the  chateau  was 
through  a  monumental  door  in  the  square 
tower,  contiguous  to  the  wing  that  held  the 
habitable  rooms.  This  tower  and  door  being 
on  the  other  side  of  the  building  from  where 
Micheline  was  standing,  she  could  not  possibly 
hope  to  see  what  would  happen,  when  pres- 
ently the  visitor  would  request  admittance. 
This  being  a  quite  unendurable  proposition, 
Micheline,  forgetting  the  hips  and  haws,  as 
well  as  her  own  dignity,  hurried  round  the 
chateau  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  Jasmin 
shuffling  across  the  courtyard  and  the  rider 
drawing  rein,  and  turning  in  the  saddle  in 
order  to  ask  him  a  question  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  never  been  accustomed  to  wait. 

Micheline  caught  the  sound  of  her  brother's 
name. 

"M.  le  Comte  de  Ventadour,"  the  visitor 


94  NICOLETTE 

was  saying  to  Jasmin,  "lieutenant  in  the  first 
company  of  His  Majesty's  bodyguard." 

"It  is  here,  monsieur,"  Jasmin  replied,  "but 
M.  le  Comte " 

"M.  le  Comte  de  Ventadour,"  Micheline 
broke  in  eagerly,  as  the  new-comer  himself 
rapidly  jumped  out  of  the  saddle,  "is  within. 
Would  you  wish,  monsieur,  to  speak  with 
him?" 

The  man  saluted  in  correct  military  style. 

"I  am,"  he  said,  "the  bearer  of  an  urgent 
despatch  to  M.  le  Comte." 

"Ah?" 

All  at  once  Micheline  felt  her  excitement 
give  way  to  prosaic  anxiety.  An  urgent 
despatch?  What  could  it  mean? 

"Give  yourself  the  trouble  to  enter,  mon- 
sieur," she  said. 

The  big  front  door  was  always  on  the  latch 
(there  was  nothing  to  tempt  the  foot-pad  or 
the  housebreaker  in  the  chateau  de  Ventadour) 
and  Micheline  herself  pushed  it  open.  The 
mysterious  visitor  having  carefully  fastened 
his  horse  to  the  iron  ring  in  the  outside  wall, 
followed  the  young  girl  into  the  vast,  bare  hall. 
She  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  frightened. 

"Will  you  be  pleased  to  walk  up,  mon- 


THE    DESPATCH  95 

sieur?"  she  asked.  "Jasmin  will  go  and  call 
M.  le  Comte." 

"By  your  leave,  Mademoiselle,"  the  mes- 
senger replied,  "I  will  wait  here  for  M.  le 
Comte's  pleasure." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  send  Jasmin 
upstairs  to  go  and  tell  Bertrand;  and  alas! 
there  was  no  excuse  for  Micheline  to  wait  and 
hear  what  the  urgent  despatch  might  be  about. 
She  certainly  felt  anxious,  as  such  a  thing  had 
never  occurred  before.  No  one  at  the  old 
owl's  nest  ever  received  urgent  despatches 
from  anywhere.  Dragging  her  lame  leg 
slowly  across  the  hall,  Micheline  went,  hoping 
against  hope  that  Bertrand  would  be  down 
soon  before  she  had  reached  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  so  that  she  could  hear  the  visitor  de- 
liver his  message.  But  Jasmin  was  slow,  or 
Bertrand  difficult  to  find.  However  slowly 
Micheline  moved  along,  she  was  across  the 
hall  and  up  the  stairs  at  one  end  of  the  gallery 
before  Bertrand  appeared  at  the  other.  Jas- 
min preceded  him,  carrying  a  candle.  It  was 
now  quite  dark,  only  through  the  tall  oriel 
window  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  moon  sent 
a  pale,  wan  ray  of  light.  Micheline  could  no 
longer  see  the  mysterious  messenger:  the 
gloom  had  swallowed  him  up  completely,  but 


96  NICOLETTE 

she  could  hear  Bertrand's  footsteps  descend- 
ing the  stone  stairs  and  Jasmin  shuffling  along 
in  front  of  him.  She  could  see  the  flicker  of 
candlelight  on  the  great  bare  walls,  the  forged 
iron  banister,  the  tattered  matting  on  the  floor, 
which  had  long  since  replaced  the  magnificent 
Aubusson  carpet  of  the  past. 

The  whole  scene  had  become  like  a  dream. 
Micheline  leaning  against  the  balustrade  of 
the  gallery,  strained  her  ears  to  listen.  She 
only  caught  snatches  of  what  the  man  was 
saying  because  he  spoke  in  whispers.  Jasmin 
had  put  the  candle  down  upon  the  table,  and 
then  had  shuffled  quietly  away.  At  one  time 
Micheline  heard  the  rustle  of  paper,  at  an- 
other an  exclamation  from  Bertrand.  In  the 
end  Bertrand  said  formally: 

"And  where  do  you  go  after  this?" 
"Straight  back  to  Avignon,  mon  lieuten- 
ant," the  man  replied,  "to  report." 

"You  can  say  I  will  start  in  the  morning." 

"At  your  service,  mon  lieutenant." 

A  moment  or  two  later  Micheline  heard  the 

click  of  the  man's  spurs  as  he  saluted  and 

turned  to  go,  then  the  ring  of  his  footsteps 

upon  the  flagged  floor:  finally  the  opening  and 

closing  of  the  great  entrance  door,  Bertrand 

calling  to   Jasmin,   the   clink  of  metal   and 


THE    DESPATCH  97 

creaking  of  leather,  the  champing  of  bit  and 
clang  of  iron  hoofs.  The  messenger  had  gone, 
and  Bertrand  was  still  lingering  in  the  hall. 
Micheline  craned  her  neck  and  saw  him  stand- 
ing beside  the  heavy  oak  table.  The  light  of 
the  candle  flickered  about  him,  throwing  a 
warm  fantastic  glow  and  weird  distorting 
shadows  upon  his  face,  his  hands,  the  paper 
which  he  held  between  his  fingers,  and  in 
which  he  seemed  wholly  absorbed.  After  a 
few  moments  which  appeared  like  an  eternity 
to  the  watching  girl,  he  folded  the  paper  and 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  turned  to 
cross  the  hall.  Micheline  met  him  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs. 

"What  is  it,  Bertrand?"  she  asked  breath- 
lessly. "I  am  so  anxious." 

He  did  not  know  she  was  there,  and  started 
when  he  heard  her  voice.  But  at  once  he  took 
hold  of  her  hand  and  patted  it  reassuringly. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  anxious  about,  little 
sister,"  he  said,  "but  I  shall  have  to  leave  here 
to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "but  why?" 

"A  message  came  through  by  the  new  aerial 
telegraph  to  Avignon.  More  troops  have  left 
for  Spain.  All  leaves  are  cancelled.  I  have 
to  rejoin  my  regiment  at  once." 


98  NICOLETTE 

"But,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  not  going 
to  the  war?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  he  replied  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness.  "If  the  King's  bodyguard  was 
to  be  sent  to  the  front  it  would  mean  that 
France  was  once  more  at  her  last  gasp." 

"There  is  no  fear  of  that?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Then  why  should  you  say  that  you  are 
afraid  that  you  are  not  going  to  the  war?" 
Micheline  asked,  and  her  eyes,  the  great 
pathetic  eyes  of  a  hopeless  cripple,  fastened 
on  the  brother's  face  a  look  of  yearning 
anxiety.  The  ghostly  light  of  the  moon  came 
shyly  peeping  in  through  the  tall,  open  win- 
dow: it  fell  full  upon  his  handsome  young 
face,  which  wore  a  perturbed,  spiritless  look. 

"Well,  little  sister,"  he  said  dejectedly,  "life 
does  not  hold  such  allurements  for  me,  does 
it,  that  I  should  cling  desperately  to  it?" 

"How  can  you  say  that,  Bertrand?"  the 
girl  retorted.  "You  love  Rixende,  do  you 
not?" 

"With  all  my  soul,"  he  replied  fervently. 

"And  she  loves  you?" 

"I  believe  so,"  he  said  with  a  strange  unac- 
countable sigh;  "I  do  firmly  believe,"  he  added 
slowly,  "that  Rixende  loves  me." 


THE    DESPATCH  99 

"Well  then?" 

To  this  he  made  no  reply,  and  anon  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"You  are  right,  Micheline,  I  have  no  right 
to  talk  as  I  do — to  feel  as  I  feel  to-night — 
dispirited  and  discouraged.  All  the  world 
smiles  to  me,"  he  added  with  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  liveliness,  which  may  perhaps  not 
have  rung  quite  true  in  the  anxious  sister's 
ears.  "I  love  Rixende,  Rixende  loves  me;  I 
am  going  to  inherit  tante  Sybille's  millions, 
and  dejection  is  a  crime.  So  now  let  us  go 
to  mother  and  break  the  news  of  my  departure 
to  her.  I  shall  have  to  leave  early  in  the 
morning,  little  sister.  We'll  have  to  say  good- 
bye to-night." 

"And  not  say  good-bye  to  Nicolette  after 
all,"  Micheline  murmured  under  her  breath. 

But  this  Bertrand  did  not  hear. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PAST 

MOTHER  wept,  and  grandmama  was 
full  of  wise  saws  and  grandiose 
speeches.  So  many  gallant  officers  of  the 
King's  Army  having  gone  to  Spain,  those  of 
His  Majesty's  bodyguard  would  be  all  the 
more  conspicuous  at  Court,  all  the  more 
sought  after  in  society. 

"And  remember,  Bertrand,"  was  one  of  the 
last  things  she  said  to  him  that  night,  "when 
you  next  come  home,  Rixende  de  Peyron- 
Bompar  must  pay  us  a  visit  too,  with  that 
atrocious  father  of  hers." 

"But,  grandmama "  Bertrand  hazarded. 

"Tush,  boy !  do  not  start  on  that  humiliating 
subject  again.  What  do  you  take  me  for?  I 
tell  you  Rixende  shall  be  entertained  in  a 
style  that  will  not  cause  you  to  blush.  Be- 
sides," she  added  with  a  shrug  of  her  aristo- 
cratic shoulders,  "Sybille  insists  that  Rixende 
shall  see  her  future  home  before  she  will  ac- 
quiesce in  the  formal  finanp allies.  So  put  a 

100 


THE    SPIRIT   OF    THE    PAST      101 

good  face  on  it,  my  boy,  and  above  all,  trust 
to  me.  I  tell  you  that  Rixende's  visit  here 
will  be  a  triumph  for  us  all." 

Grandmama  was  so  sure,  so  emphatic, 
above  all  so  dominating,  that  Bertrand  grate- 
fully followed  her  lead.  After  all,  he  loved 
his  ancestral  home,  despite  its  shortcomings. 
He  was  proud  of  it,  too.  Think  of  that  old 
Peyron-Bompar,  who  did  not  even  know  who 
his  grandfather  was,  being  brought  in  contact 
with  traditions  that  had  their  origin  in 
Carlovingian  times.  That  the  tapestries  on 
the  walls  were  tattered  and  faded,  the  curtains 
bleached  to  a  drab,  colourless  tone,  the  carpets 
in  holes,  the  masonry  tumbling  to  ruins,  was 
but  a  glorious  evidence  of  the  antiquity  of  this 
historic  chateau.  Bertrand  was  proud  of  it. 
He  longed  to  show  it  to  Rixende,  and  to  stand 
with  her  in  the  great  ancestral  hall,  where 
hung  the  portraits  of  his  glorious  forbears. 
Rambaud  de  Ventadour,  the  friend  of  the 
Grand  Monarque,  Guilhem  de  Ventadour,  the 
follower  of  St.  Louis,  and  Rixende,  surnamed 
Riande — because  she  was  always  laughing, 
and  whose  beauty  had  rivalled  that  of  Monte- 
span. 

Even  to-night  he  paid  a  visit  to  those  be- 
loved portraits.  He  seemed  to  want  to  steep 


102  NICOLETTE 

himself  in  tradition,  and  the  grandeur  and 
chivalry  which  was  his  richest  inheritance. 
The  great  hall  looked  vast  and  silent  in  the 
gloom,  like  the  graveyard  of  glorious  dead. 
The  darkness  was  mysterious,  and  rilled  him 
with  a  delicious  awe :  through  the  tall  windows 
the  moonlight  came  peeping  in,  spectral  and 
wan,  and  Bertrand  would  have  been  neither 
surprised  nor  frightened  if,  lured  by  that 
weird  light,  the  ghosts  of  his  forbears  were  to 
step  out  of  the  lifeless  canvases  and  march  in 
solemn  procession  before  him,  bidding  him  re- 
member that  he  was  one  of  them,  one  of  the 
imperishable  race  of  the  Ventadours,  and  that 
his  chief  aim  in  life  must  be  to  restore  the 
name  and  family  to  their  former  glory. 

Grandmama  was  quite  right  when  she  said 
that  the  time  had  now  come  when  the  individ- 
ual must  cease  to  count,  and  everything  be  done 
for  the  restoration  of  the  family  to  its  former 
importance.  He  himself  must  be  prepared  to 
sacrifice  his  noblest  impulses  to  the  common 
cause.  Thank  God !  his  heart  was  not  in  con- 
flict with  his  duty.  He  loved  Rixende,  the 
very  woman  whom  it  was  his  duty  to  marry, 
and  this  urgent  call  back  to  Versailles  had 
been  thrice  welcome,  since  it  would  take  him 
back  to  his  beloved  one's  side,  at  least  one 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    PAST      103 

month  before  he  had  hoped  to  return.  A 
pang  of  remorse  shot  through  his  heart,  how- 
ever, when  he  thought  of  the  mas:  of  Jaume 
Deydier,  who  had  been  a  kind  friend  to  his 
mother  in  the  hour  of  her  distress,  and  of 
Nicolette,  the  quaint,  chubby  child,  who  was 
wont  to  worship  him  so.  Quite  unaccountably 
his  memory  flew  back  to  that  late  afternoon 
five  years  ago,  when,  troubled  and  perplexed, 
very  much  as  he  was  now,  he  had  suddenly 
thought  of  Nicolette,  and  felt  a  strange,  in- 
definable yearning  for  her,  just  as  he  did  now. 

And  almost  unconsciously  he  found  himself 
presently  wandering  through  the  woods.  The 
evening  air  was  warm  and  fragrant  and  so 
clear,  so  clear  in  the  moonlight  that  every  tiny 
twig  and  delicate  leaf  of  olive  and  mimosa 
cast  a  sharp,  trenchant  shadow  as  if  carved 
with  a  knife. 

Poor  little  Nicolette!  She  had  been  a 
pretty  child,  and  her  admiration  for  him, 
Bertrand,  had  been  one  of  the  nicest  traits  in 
her  character.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  that 
moment,  five  years  ago,  when  she  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  gate  with  the  riotous  vine 
as  a  background  to  her  brown  curls,  and  the 
lingering  twilight  defining  her  arms  and  the 
white  shift  which  she  wore.  He  supposed 


104  NICOLETTE 

that  she  must  have  grown,  and,  in  truth,  she 
must  have  altered  a  good  deal,  during  her  stay 
at  the  convent-school  in  Avignon.  No  doubt, 
too,  her  manners  would  have  improved;  she 
had  been  rather  tomboyish  and  very  childish 
in  her  ideas.  Poor  little  Nicolette !  No  doubt 
she  would  feel  hurt  that  he  had  not  been  over 
to  the  mas,  but  it  had  been  difficult,  very  diffi- 
cult ;  and  he  really  meant  to  go  on  the  morrow 
with  Micheline,  if  this  urgent  despatch  had  not 
come  for  him  to  return  to  duty  at  once.  Poor 
little  Nicolette! 

Then  all  at  once  he  saw  her.  Absorbed  in 
thought  he  had  wandered  on  and  on  without 
realising  that  he  had  gone  so  far.  And  now 
he  found  himself  down  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Leze,  picking  his  way  on  the  rough  stones  left 
high  and  dry  during  the  summer  in  the  river 
bed.  And  there  in  front  of  him  was  the  pool 
with  the  overhanging  carob  tree,  and  beside 
it  stood  Nicolette.  He  recognised  her  at  once, 
even  though  the  light  of  the  moon  only 
touched  her  head  and  neck  and  the  white  fichu 
which  she  wore  about  her  shoulders.  She 
seemed  very  different  from  the  child  whom 
he  remembered,  for  she  looked  tall  and  slender, 
and  her  brown  curls  did  not  tumble  all  about 
her  face  as  they  were  wont  to  do;  some  of 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   THE    PAST      105 

them  did  still  fall  over  her  forehead  and  ears, 
and  their  delicate  tendrils  glistened  like  chest- 
nuts in  the  mysterious  light,  but  the  others 
were  hidden  under  the  quaint  head-dress,  the 
small,  round  knob  of  muslin  which  she  wore 
over  the  crown  of  her  head  like  most  Proven9al 
maidens. 

Whether  she  had  expected  him  or  not, 
Bertrand  could  not  say.  At  sight  of  him  she 
gave  a  little  cry  of  delight  and  ran  forward 
to  greet  him. 

"Bertrand,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  knew  that 
you  would  come." 

In  the  olden  days,  she  used,  when  she  saw 
him,  to  run  to  him  and  throw  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  She  also  would  have  said  "Tan-tan" 
in  the  olden  days.  This  time,  however,  she 
put  out  her  hand,  and  it  also  seemed  quite 
natural  for  Bertrand  to  stoop  and  kiss  it,  as 
if  she  were  a  lady.  She,  however,  withdrew 
her  hand  very  quickly,  though  not  before  he 
had  perceived  that  it  was  very  soft  and  very 
warm,  and  quivered  in  his  grasp  just  like  a 
little  bird. 

"How  funny  to  find  you  here,  Nicolette," 
he  said  somewhat  lamely.  "And  how  you 
have  grown,"  he  added. 


106  NICOLETTE 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "Margai  thought  you 
would  say  that  when " 

"I  was  coming  over  with  Micheline  to- 
morrow," he  broke  in  quickly.  "It  was  all 
arranged." 

Her  face  lit  up  with  a  wonderful  expression 
of  relief  and  of  joy. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  knew — I 
knew " 

Bertrand  smiled,  for  she  looked  so  happy. 

"What  did  you  know,  Nicolette?"  he  asked. 

"Margai  said  you  would  not  come  to  see 
us,  because  you  were  too  proud,  now  that  you 
were  an  officer  of  the  King's  guard.  Time 
went  on,  and  even  father  said 

"But  you  knew  better,  eh,  little  one?" 

"I  knew,"  she  said  simply,  "that  you  would 
not  turn  your  back  on  old  friends," 

He  felt  so  ashamed  of  himself  that  he  could 
not  say  anything  for  the  moment.  Indeed,  he 
felt  foolish,  standing  here  beside  this  village 
girl  with  that  silly  peasant's  head-dress  on  her 
head,  who,  nevertheless,  had  the  power  to 
make  him  feel  mean  and  ungrateful.  She 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to  say  something, 
but  as  he  appeared  moody  and  silent,  she  went 
on  after  a  while. 

"Margai  will  have  to  bake  a  very  large 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    PAST      107 

brioche  to-morrow  as  a  punishment  for  having 
doubted  you." 

"Nicolette,"  he  rejoined  dejectedly,  "I  can- 
not come  to-morrow." 

"Then  the  next  day — why!  it  will  be  Sun- 
day, and  father's  birthday,  we  will  .  .  ." 

He  shook  his  head.  He  dared  not  meet  her 
eyes,  those  great  hazel  eyes  of  hers,  which  had 
golden  lights  in  them  just  like  a  topaz.  He 
knew  that  the  expression  of  joy  had  gone  out 
of  them,  and  that  the  tears  were  beginning  to 
gather.  So  he  just  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  drew  out  the  letter  which  the  soldier- 
messenger  had  brought  from  Avignon. 

"It  was  all  arranged,"  he  said  haltingly, 
"Micheline  and  I  were  coming  over  to-morrow. 
I  wanted  to  see  your  father  and — and  thank 
him,  and  I  longed  to  see  you,  Nicolette,  and 
dear  old  Margai — but  a  messenger  came  with 
this,  a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

He  held  out  the  paper  to  her,  but  she  did 
not  take  it. 

"It  is  very  dark,"  she  said  simply.  "I  could 
not  read  it.  What  does  it  say?" 

"That  by  order  of  His  Majesty  the  King, 
Lieutenant  Comte  de  Ventadour  must  return 
to  duty  at  once." 


108  NICOLETTE 

"Does  that  mean,"  she  said,  "that  you  must 
go  away?" 

"Early  to-morrow  morning,  alas!" 
She  said  nothing  more  for  the  moment,  and 
with  a  sigh  he  slipped  the  paper  back  into  his 
pocket.  The  situation  was  uncomfortable, 
and  Bertrand  felt  vaguely  irritated.  His 
nerves  were  on  edge.  Everything  around  him 
was  so  still  that  the  sudden  flutter  of  a  bird 
in  the  branches  of  the  olive  tree  gave  him  an 
uneasy  start.  Only  the  murmur  of  the  Leze 
on  its  narrow  rocky  bed  broke  the  silence  of 
the  valley,  and  far  away  the  cooing  of  a  wood- 
pigeon  settling  down  to  rest.  Bertrand  would 
have  liked  to  say  something,  but  the  words 
choked  him  before  they  were  uttered.  He 
would  have  liked  to  speak  lightly  of  the  days 
of  long  ago,  of  Paul  et  Virginie,  and  their 
desert  island.  But  he  could  not.  Every- 
thing around  him  seemed  to  reproach  him  for 
his  apathy  and  his  indifference ;  the  carob  tree, 
and  the  boulder  from  the  top  of  which  he  used 
to  fish,  the  crest  of  the  old  olive  tree  with  the 
hollow  trunk  that  was  Paul  et  Virginie's 
island  home,  the  voice  of  the  wood-pigeon, 
and  the  soughing  of  the  night  breeze  through 
the  delicate  branches  of  the  pines.  And  above 
all,  the  scent  of  rosemary,  of  wild  thyme  and 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   PAST      109 

sweet  marjoram  that  filled  the  air,  gave  him  a 
sense  of  something  irretrievable,  of  something 
that  he,  with  a  callous  hand,  was  wilfully 
sweeping  away. 

"I  am  sorry,  Bertrand,  that  .you  cannot 
come  to  the  mas,"  Nicolette  said  after  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  which  to  Bertrand  seemed  like  an 
hour,  "but  duty  is  duty.  We  must  hope  for 
better  luck  next  time." 

Her  quick,  measured  voice  broke  the  spell 
that  seemed  to  be  holding  him  down.  Ber- 
trand drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  What  a 
comfort  that  she  was  so  sensible,  poor  Nico- 
lette! 

"You  understand,  don't  you,  Nicolette?" 
he  said  lamely. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  replied.  "Father  will 
be  sorry,  but  he,  too,  will  understand." 

"And  Margai?"  he  asked  lightly. 

She  smiled. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "y°u  know  what  Margai  is, 
always  grumbling  and  scolding.  Age  has  not 
softened  her  temper,  nor  hardened  her  heart." 

Then  they  looked  at  one  another.  Ber- 
trand murmured  "Good  old  Margai!"  and 
laughed,  and  Nicolette  laughed  in  response. 
She  was  quite  gay  now.  Oh!  she  was  un- 
doubtedly changed!  Five  years  ago  she 


110  NICOLETTE 

would  have  cried  if  she  thought  Bertrand  was 
going  away  and  she  would  not  see  him  for  a 
time.  She  would  not  have  made  a  scene,  but 
she  would  have  cried.  Now  she  scarcely 
seemed  to  mind.  Bertrand  had  been  a  fool  to 
worry  as  to  what  she  would  think  or  do.  She 
began  asking  him  questions  quite  naturally 
about  his  life  at  the  Court,  about  the  King  and 
the  Queen.  She  even  asked  about  Mademoi- 
selle de  Peyron-Bompar,  and  vowed  she  must 
be  even  more  beautiful  than  the  lovely  Lady 
of  the  Laurels.  But  Bertrand  was  in  that 
lover-like  state  when  the  name  of  the  loved 
one  seems  almost  too  sacred  to  be  spoken  by 
another's  lips.  So  the  subject  of  Rixende 
was  soon  dropped,  and  Nicolette  chatted  of 
other  things. 

Bertrand  felt»that  he  was  losing  control  over 
his  nerves.  He  felt  an  ever-growing  strange 
irritation  against  Nicolette.  In  this  elusive 
moonlight  she  seemed  less  and  less  like  the  girl 
he  had  known,  the  podgy  little  torn-boy  who 
used  to  run  after  him  crying  for  "Tan-tan"; 
less  of  a  woman  and  morewof  a  sprite,  a  dweller 
of  these  woods,  whose  home  was  in  the  hollow 
trunks  of  olive  trees,  and  who  bathed  at  dawn 
in  the  mountain  stream,  and  wound  sprigs  of 
mimosa  in  her  hair.  Anon,  when  she  laugh- 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    PAST      111 

ingly  taunted  him  about  his  good  fortunes 
with  the  lovely  ladies  of  Versailles,  he  ordered 
her  sharply  to  be  silent. 

At  one  time  he  tried  to  speak  to  her  about 
their  island,  their  wonderful  life  of  make- 
believe:  he  tried  to  lead  her  back  to  the  carob 
tree  and  to  recapture  with  her  for  an  instant 
the  spirit  of  the  past.  But  she  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  island,  and  deliberately 
turned  to  walk  away  from  it,  back  along  the 
stony  shore  of  the  Leze,  never  once  glancing 
behind  her,  even  when  he  laughingly  declared 
that  a  ship  had  appeared  upon  the  horizon,  and 
they  must  hoist  up  the  signal  to  draw  her  look- 
out man's  attention  to  their  desert  island. 

Bertrand  did  not  walk  with  her  as  far  as 
the  mas.  Nicolette  herself  declared  that  it 
wras  too  late;  father  would  be  abed,  and 
Margai  was  sure  to  be  cross.  So  they  parted 
down  on  the  road,  Bertrand  declaring  that  he 
would  stand  there  and  watch  until  he  knew 
that  she  was  safely  within. 

"How  foolish  of  you,  Bertrand,"  she  said 
gaily.  "Why  should  you  watch?  I  am  often 
out  much  later  than  this." 

"But  not  with  me,"  he  said. 

"Then  what  must  I  do  to  reassure  you?" 


112  NICOLETTE 

"Put  a  light  in  your  bedroom  window.  I 
would  see  it  from  here." 

"Very  well,"  she  assented  with  a  careless 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "Good  night,  Ber- 
trand." 

"Good-bye,  Nicolette." 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  him. 
He  wanted  to  kiss  her  just  as  he  used  to  do 
in  the  past,  but  with  a  funny  little  cry  she 
evaded  him,  and  before  he  could  detain  her, 
she  had  darted  up  the  slope,  and  was  bounding 
upwards  from  gradient  to  gradient  like  a 
young  antelope  on  the  mountain-side. 

Bertrand  stood  quite  still  watching  the  glint 
of  her  white  cap  and  her  fichu  between  the 
olive  trees.  She  seemed  indeed  a  sprite:  he 
could  not  see  her  feet,  but  her  movements  were 
so  swift  that  he  was  sure  they  could  not  touch 
the  ground,  but  that  she  was  floating  upwards 
on  the  bosom  of  a  cloud.  The  little  white  cap 
from  afar  looked  like  a  tiny  light  on  the  crown 
of  her  head  and  the  ends  of  her  fichu  trailed 
behind  her  like  wings.  Soon  she  was  gone. 
He  could  no  longer  see  her.  The  slope  was 
steep  and  the  scrub  was  dense.  It  had  en- 
folded her  and  hidden  her  as  the  wood  hides 
its  nymphs,  and  the  voice  of  the  mountain 
stream  mocked  him  because  his  eyes  were  not 


THE    SPIRIT   OF    THE   PAST      US 

keen  enough  to  see.  Overhead  the  stars  with 
myriads  of  eyes  could  watch  her  progress  up 
the  heights,  whilst  he  remained  below  and 
could  no  longer  see.  But  the  air  remained 
fragrant  with  the  odour  of  dried  lavender  and 
sun-kissed  herbs,  and  from  the  woods  around 
there  came  in  sweet,  lulling  waves,  wafted  to 
his  nostrils,  the  scent  of  rosemary  which  is  for 
remembrance. 

Bertrand  waited  awhile.  The  moon  veiled 
her  radiance  behind  a  mantle  of  gossamer 
clouds,  which  she  had  tinged  with  lemon-gold, 
the  sharp,  trenchant  shadows  of  glistening 
lights  gave  place  to  a  uniform  tone  of  silvery- 
grey.  The  trees  sighed  and  bowed  their  crests 
under  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  which  came 
soughing  down  the  valley,  and  all  at  once  the 
air  grew  chill  as  if  under  a  breath  from  an 
ice-cold  mouth.  Bertrand  shivered  a  little 
and  buttoned  his  coat.  He  thought  that 
Nicolette  must  have  reached  the  mas  by  now. 
Perhaps  Margai  was  keeping  her  talking 
downstairs,  or  she  had  forgotten  to  put  her 
light  in  her  bedroom  window. 

Perhaps  the  trees  had  grown  of  late  and 
were  obstructing  the  view,  or  perhaps  he  had 
made  a  mistake  and  from  where  he  stood  the 
windows  of  the  mas  could  not  be  seen.  It  was 


114  NICOLETTE 

so  long,  so  very  long  ago  since  he  had  been 
here,  he  had  really  forgotten  his  bearings. 

And  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  turned 
to  walk  away. 

But  over  at  the  mas  Nicolette  had  thrown 
her  arms  around  old  Margai's  shoulders: 

"Thou  wert  wrong,  Margai,"  she  cried, 
"thou  wert  wrong.  He  meant  to  come.  He 
wished  to  come.  He  had  decided  to  come  to- 
morrow  " 

"Ta,  ta,  ta,"  Margai  broke  in  crossly,  "what 
is  all  that  nonsense  about  now?  And  why 
those  glistening  eyes,  I  would  like  to  know. 
Who  is  it  that  had  decided  to  come  to- 
morrow?" 

"Tan-tan,  of  course!"  Nicolette  cried,  and 
clapped  her  hands  together,  and  her  dark  eyes 
glistened,  glistened  with  an  expression  that  of 
&  surety  the  old  woman  could  not  have  defined. 

"Oh!  go  away  with  your  Tan-tans,"  Margai 
retorted  gruffly.  "You  know  you  must  not 
say  that." 

"I'll  say  M.  le  Comte  then,  an  thou  wilt," 
the  girl  retorted,  for  her  joy  was  not  to  be 
marred  by  any  grumblings  or  wet  blankets. 
"But  he  was  coming  here,  all  the  same,  what- 
ever thou  mayest  choose  to  call  him." 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    PAST      115 

"Was  he,  indeed?" 

The  old  woman  was  not  to  be  mollified  quite 
so  easily,  and,  all  the  while  that  she  watched 
the  milk  which  she  had  put  on  the  stove  to  boil 
for  the  child,  she  went  on  muttering  to  herself: 

"Then  why  doth  he  not  come?  Why  not, 
if  he  meant  to?" 

"He  has  been  sent  for,  Margai,"  Nicolette 
said  with  a  great  air  of  importance,  "by  the 
King." 

"As  if  the  King  would  trouble  to  send  for 
Tan-tan!"  old  Margai  riposted  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

Nicolette  stood  before  Margai,  drew  her 
round  by  the  arm,  forcing  her  to  look  her 
straight  in  the  eyes,  then  she  put  up  her  finger 
and  spoke  with  a  solemn  earnestness. 

"The  King  has  sent  for  M.  le  Comte  de 
Ventadour,  Margai.  Do  not  dare  to  contra- 
dict this,  because  it  would  be  disrespectful  to 
an  officer  of  His  Majesty's  bodyguard.  And 
the  proof  of  what  I  say,  is  that  Tan-tan  has 
to  start  early  to-morrow  morning  for  Ver- 
sailles. If  the  King  had  not  sent  for  him  he 
would  have  come  here  to  see  us  in  the  after- 
noon, and  all  that  thou  didst  say,  Margai, 
about  his  being  proud  and  ungrateful  is  not 
true,  not  true,"  she  reiterated,  stamping  her 


116  NI  COLETTE 

foot  resolutely  upon  the  ground,  then  proceed- 
ing to  give  Margai  first  a  good  shake,  then  a 
kiss,  and  finally  a  hug.  "Say  now,  Margai, 
say  at  once  that  it  is  not  true." 

"There  now  the  milk  is  boiling  over,"  was 
Margai's  only  comment  upon  the  child's  per- 
oration, as  she  succeeded  in  freeing  herself 
from  Nicolette's  clinging  arms:  after  which 
she  devoted  her  attention  to  the  milk. 

And  Nicolette  ran  up  to  her  room,  and  put 
her  lighted  candle  in  the  window.  She  was 
humming  to  herself  all  the  while  : 

"  Janeto  gardo  si  moutoun 
En  fasent  soun  bas   de  coutoun." 

But  presently  the  song  died  down  in  her 
throat,  she  threw  herself  down  on  her  narrow, 
little  bed,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow 
she  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ORANGE-BLOSSOM 

AND  now  it  is  spring  once  again:  a 
glorious  May-day  with  the  sky  of  an 
intense  blue,  and  every  invisible  atom  in  the 
translucent  air  quivering  in  the  heat  of  the 
noon-day  sun.  All  around  the  country-side 
the  harvesting  of  orange-blossom  has  begun, 
and  the  whole  atmosphere  is  filled  with  such 
fragrance  that  the  workers  who  carry  the 
great  baskets  filled  to  the  brim  with  ambrosial 
petals  feel  the  intoxicating  perfume  rising  to 
their  heads  like  wine. 

At  the  mas  they  are  harvesting  the  big 
grove  to-day,  the  one  that  lies  down  in  the 
valley,  close  to  the  road-side.  There  are  over 
five  hundred  trees,  so  laden  with  flowers  that, 
even  after  heavy  thinning  down,  there  will 
be  a  huge  crop  of  fruit  at  Christmas-time. 
Through  the  fragrant  air,  the  fresh  young 
voices  of  the  gatherers  resound,  echoing 
against  the  distant  hills,  chattering,  shouting, 
laughing,  oh!  laughing  all  the  time,  for  they 

117 


118  NICOLETTE 

are  boys  and  girls  together  and  all  are  be- 
trothed to  one  another  in  accordance  to  old 
Proven9al  traditions  which  decrees  that  lads 
and  maidens  be  tokened  from  the  time  when 
they  emerge  out  of  childhood  and  the  life  of 
labour  on  a  farm  begins:  so  that  Meon  is  best 
known  as  the  betrothed  of  Petrone  or  Magde- 
leine  as  the  fiancee  of  Gaucelme. 

Large  sheets  are  spread  under  the  trees,  and 
the  boys,  on  ladders,  pick  the  flowers  and  drop 
them  lightly  down.  It  requires  a  very  gentle 
hand  to  be  a  good  picker,  because  the  delicate 
petals  must  on  no  account  be  bruised  and  all 
around  the  trees  where  the  girls  stand,  hold- 
ing up  the  sheet,  the  air  is  filled  as  with 
myriads  of  sweet-scented  fluttering  snow- 
flakes. 

Jaume  Deydier,  in  addition  to  his  special 
process  for  the  manufacture  of  olive  oil,  has 
3,  secret  one  for  the  extraction  of  neroli,  a 
sweet  oil  obtained  from  orange-blossom,  and 
for  distilling  orange-flower  water,  a  specific 
famed  throughout  the  world  for  the  cure  of 
those  attacks  of  nerves  to  which  great  ladies 
are  subject.  Therefore,  at  the  mas,  the  fra- 
grant harvest  is  of  great  importance. 

And  what  a  feast  it  is  for  the  eye.  Be- 
neath the  brilliant  canopy  above,  a  veritable 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  119 

riot  of  colour,  an  orgy  of  movement  and  of 
life !  There  stands  Jaume  Deydier  himself  in 
blouse  and  linen  trousers,  out  from  earliest 
dawn,  tablets  and  pencil  in  hand,  counting  and 
checking  the  bags  as  they  are  carried  from 
the  grove  to  the  road,  where  a  row  of  carts 
is  waiting  to  convey  them  to  the  distillery  at 
Pertuis :  the  horses  are  gorgeously  decked  out 
with  scarlet  and  blue  ribbons  plaited  into  their 
manes  and  tails,  the  bosses  on  their  harness 
scintillating  like  gold  in  the  sunshine:  their 
drivers  with  bunches  of  lilac  or  lily-of-the- 
valley  tied  to  their  whips.  Then  the  girls  in 
red  or  pink  or  green  kirtles,  the  tiny  muslin 
caps  on  their  heads  embellished  with  a  sprig 
of  blue  gentian  or  wild  geranium  that  nestles 
against  their  curls  or  above  the  heavy  plaits 
that  hang  like  streamers  down  their  backs ;  and 
the  lads  in  grey  or  blue  blouses,  with  gay 
kerchiefs  tied  loosely  round  their  necks,  and 
through  it  all  from  time  to  time  a  trenchant 
note  of  deep  maroon  or  purple,  a  shawl,  a 
kerchief,  a  piece  of  embroidery;  or  again  'tis 
M.  le  Cure's  soutane,  a  note  of  sober  black, 
as  he  moves  from  group  to  group,  admonish- 
ing, chaffing,  bestowing  blessings  as  he  goes 
by,  his  well-worn  soutane  held  high  above  his 


120  NICOLETTE 

buckled  shoes,  his  three-cornered  hat  pushed 
back  above  his  streaming  forehead. 

"Eh !  Mossou  le  Cure !"  comes  in  a  ringing 
shout  from  a  chorus  of  young  voices,  "this 
way,  Mossou  le  Cure,  this  way!  bless  this  tree 
for  us  that  it  may  yield  the  heaviest  crop  of 
the  year." 

For  there  is  a  dole  on  every  tree,  according 
to  the  crop  it  yields  to  deft  fingers,  and  M.  le 
Cure  hurries  along,  raises  his  wrinkled  hand 
and  murmurs  a  quick  blessing,  whilst  for  a 
minute  or  two  dark  heads  and  fair  are  bent 
in  silent  reverence  and  lips  murmur  a  short 
prayer,  only  to  break  the  next  moment  into 
irresponsible  laughter  again. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  merry  throng 
Nicolette  moves — the  fairest,  the  merriest  of 
all.  She  has  pinned  a  white  camellia  into  her 
cap:  it  nestles  against  her  brown  curls  on  the 
crown  of  her  head,  snow-white  with  just  a 
splash  or  two  of  vivid  crimson  on  the  outer 
petals.  Ameyric  Barnadou  is  in  close  attend- 
ance upon  her.  He  is  the  most  desirable 
parti  in  the  neighbourhood  for  he  is  the  only 
son  of  the  rich  farmer  over  at  La  Bastide,  who 
is  also  the  mayor  of  the  commune,  and  a  well- 
set  up,  handsome  lad  with  bold,  dark  eyes  cal- 
culated to  bring  a  quick  blush  to  any  damask 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  121 

cheek.  Glances  of  admiration  and  approval 
were  freely  bestowed  on  the  young  couple :  and 
more  than  one  sigh  of  longing  or  regret  fol- 
lowed them  as  they  moved  about  amongst  the 
trees,  for  Ameyric  had  eyes  only  for  Nicolette. 

Nicolette  had  in  truth  grown  into  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  with  the  rich  beauty  of  the 
South,  the  sun-kissed  brown  hair,  and  mellow, 
dark  hazel  eyes,  with  a  gleam  in  them  beneath 
their  lashes,  as  of  a  golden  topaz.  That  she 
was  habitually  cool  and  distant  with  the  lads 
of  the  country-side — some  said  that  she  was 
proud — made  her  all  the  more  desirable  to 
those  who,  like  Ameyric,  made  easy  conquests 
where  they  chose  to  woo.  So  far,  certainly 
Nicolette  had  not  been  known  to  favour  any 
one,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  her  girl  friends 
teased  her,  calling  her:  Nicolette,  no  man's 
fiancee. 

To-day  with  a  background  of  light  colour, 
with  the  May-day  sun  above  her,  and  the  scent 
of  orange-blossom  in  his  nostrils,  Ameyric 
B  amadou  felt  that  life  would  be  for  him  a 
poor  thing  indeed  if  he  could  not  share  it  with 
Nicolette.  But  though  he  found  in  his  simple 
poetic  soul,  words  of  love  that  should  have 
melted  a  heart  of  stone,  exquisite  Nicolette  did 
no  more  than  smile  upon  him  with  a  gentle 


122  NICOLETTE 

kind  of  pity,  which  was  exasperating  to  his 
pride  and  fuel  to  his  ardour. 

"Nicolette,"  Ameyric  pleaded  at  one  time 
when  he  had  succeeded  by  dint  of  clever 
strategy  in  isolating  her  from  the  groups  of 
noisy  harvesters,  "if  you  only  knew  how  good 
it  is  to  love." 

She  was  leaning  up  against  a  tree,  and  the 
leaves  and  branches  cast  trenchant,  irregular 
shadows  on  her  muslin  kerchief  and  the  creamy 
satin  of  her  shoulders :  she  was  twirling  a  piece 
of  orange-blossom  between  her  fingers  and 
now  and  then  she  raised  it  to  her  cheeks, 
caressing  it  and  inhaling  its  dewy  fragrance. 

"Don't  do  that,  Nicolette!"  the  lad  cried  out 
with  a  touch  of  exasperation. 

She  turned  great,  wondering  eyes  on  him. 

"What  am  I  doing,  Ameyric,"  she  asked, 
"that  irritates  you?" 

"Letting  that  flower  kiss  your  cheek,"  he 
replied,  "when  I— 

"Poor  Ameyric,"  she  sighed. 

"Alas!  poor  Ameyric!"  he  assented.  "You 
must  think  that  I  am  made  of  stone,  Nicolette, 
or  you  would  not  tease  me  so." 

"I?"  she  exclaimed,  genuinely  astonished: 
"I  tease  you?  How?" 

But  Ameyric  had  not  a  great  power  of  ex- 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  123 

pressing  himself.  Just  now  he  looked  shy, 
awkward,  and  mumbled  haltingly: 

"By — by  being  you — yourself — so  lovely 
— so  fresh — then  kissing  that  flower.  You 
must  know  that  it  makes  me  mad!"  he  added 
almost  roughly.  He  tried  to  capture  her 
hand;  but  she  succeeded  in  freeing  it,  and 
flung  the  twig  away. 

"Poor  Ameyric,"  she  reiterated  with  a  sigh. 

He  had  already  darted  after  the  flower  and, 
kneeling,  he  picked  it  up  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips.  She  looked  down  on  his  eager, 
flushed  face,  and  there  crept  a  soft,  almost 
motherly  look  in  her  eyes. 

"If  you  only  knew,"  he  said  moodily,  "how 
it  hurts!" 

"Just  now  you  wished  me  to  know  how 
good  it  was  to  love,"  she  riposted  lightly. 

"That  is  just  the  trouble,  Nicolette,"  the 
lad  assented,  and  rose  slowly  to  his  feet;  "it  is 
good  but  it  also  hurts ;  and  when  the  loved  one 
is  unkind,  or  worse  still,  indifferent,  then  it  is 
real  hell!" 

Then,  as  she  said  nothing,  but  stood  quite 
still,  her  little  head  thrown  back,  breathing  in 
the  delicious  scented  air,  which  had  become 
almost  oppressive  in  its  fragrance,  he  ex- 
claimed passionately: 


124  NICOLETTE 

"I  love  you  so,  Nicolette!" 

He  put  out  his  arms  and  drew  her  to  him, 
longing  to  fasten  his  lips  on  that  round  white 
throat,  which  gleamed  like  rose-tinted  marble. 

"Nicolette,"  he  pleaded,  because  she  had 
pushed  him  away  quickly — almost  roughly. 
"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  cannot  bring 
yourself  to  love  me?" 

"Quite  sure,"  she  replied  firmly. 

"But  you  cannot  go  on  like  this,"  he  argued, 
"loving  no  one.  It  is  not  natural.  Every 
girl  has  a  lad.  Look  at  them  how  happy  they 
are." 

Instinctively  she  turned  to  look. 

In  truth  they  were  a  happy  crowd  these 
children  of  Provence.  It  was  the  hour  after 
dejeuner,  and  in  groups  of  half  a  dozen  or 
more,  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women  squatted 
upon  the  ground  under  the  orange  trees,  hav- 
ing polished  off  their  bread  and  cheese,  drunk 
their  wine  and  revelled  in  the  cakes  which 
Margai  always  baked  expressly  for  the  har- 
vesters. There  was  an  hour's  rest  before 
afternoon  work  began.  Every  girl  was  with 
her  lad.  Ameyric  was  quite  right :  there  they 
were,  unfettered  in  their  naive  love-making; 
the  boys  for  the  most  part  were  lying  full 
length  on  the  ground,  their  hats  over  their 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  125 

eyes,  tired  out  after  the  long  morning's  work: 
the  girls  squatted  beside  them,  teasing,  chaff- 
ing, laughing,  yielding  to  a  kiss  when  a  kiss 
was  demanded,  on  full  red  lips  or  blue-veined, 
half -closed  lids. 

Anon,  one  or  two  of  the  men,  skilled  in 
music,  picked  up  their  galoubets  whilst  others 
slung  their  beribboned  tambours  round  their 
shoulders.  They  began  to  beat  time,  softly  at 
first,  then  a  little  louder,  and  the  soft-toned 
galoubets  entoned  the  tender  melody  of  "Lou 
Roussignou"  ("The  Nightingale"),  one  of  the 
sweetest  of  the  national  songs  of  Provence. 
And  one  by  one  the  fresh  young  voices  of  men 
and  maids  also  rose  in  song,  and  soon  the 
mountains  gave  echo  to  the  sweet,  sad  tune, 
with  its  quaint  burden  and  its  haunting 
rhythm,  and  to  the  clapping  of  soft,  moist 
hands,  the  droning  of  galoubets  and  murmur 
of  tambours. 

"  Whence  come  you,  oh,  fair  maiden? 
The  nightingale  that  flies, 
Your  arm  with  basket  laden, 
The  nightingale  that  flies,  that  flies, 
Your  arm  with  basket  laden, 
The  nightingale  that  soon  will  fly." 

One  young  voice  after  another  took  up  the 
refrain,  and  soon  the  sound  rose  and  rose 


126  NICOLETTE 

higher  and  ever  higher,  growing  in  magnitude 
and  volume  till  every  mountain  crag  and  every 
crevasse  on  distant  Luberon  seemed  to  join  in 
the  chorus,  and  to  throw  back  in  numberless 
echoes  the  naive  burden  of  the  song  that  holds 
in  its  music  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  this 
land  of  romance  and  of  tears. 

Nicolette  listened  for  awhile,  standing  still 
under  the  orange  tree,  with  the  sun  playing 
upon  her  hair,  drinking  in  the  intoxicating 
perfume  of  orange-blossoms  that  lulled  her 
mind  to  dreams  of  what  could  never,  never  be. 
But  anon  she,  too,  joined  in  the  song,  and  as 
her  voice  had  been  trained  by  a  celebrated 
music-master  of  Avignon,  and  was  of  a  pecu- 
liarly pure  and  rich  quality,  it  rose  above  the 
quaint,  harsh  tones  that  came  from  untutored 
throats,  until  one  by  one  these  became  hushed, 
and  boys  and  girls  ceased  to  laugh  and  to 
chatter,  and  listened. 

"  What  ails  thee,  maiden  fair  ? 
The  nightingale  that  flies  ! 
Whence  all  these  tears  and  care  ? 
The  nightingale  that  flies,  that  flies  ! 
Whence  all  these  tear-drops  rare  ? 
The  nightingale  away  will  fly  !  " 

sang  Nicolette,  and  the  last  high  note,  pure 
indeed  as  that  of  a  bird,  lingered  on  the  per- 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  127 

fumed  air  like  a  long-drawn-out  sigh,  then 
softly  died  away  as  if  carried  to  the  mountain 
heights  on  the  wings  of  the  nightingale  that 
flies. 

"  Lou  roussignou  che  vola — vola  !  " 

A  hush  had  fallen  on  the  merry  throng:  a 
happy  hush  wherein  hands  sought  hands  and 
curly  head  leaned  on  willing  breast,  and  lips 
sought  eyes  and  closed  them  with  a  kiss. 
Nicolette  was  standing  under  the  big  orange 
tree,  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  slopes  of 
Luberon,  where  between  olive  trees  and  pines 
rose  the  dark  cypress  trees  that  marked  the 
grounds  of  the  old  chateau.  When  she  ceased 
to  sing  some  of  the  lads  shouted  enthusiasti- 
cally: "Encore!  Encore!"  and  M.  le  Cure 
clapped  his  hands,  and  said  she  must  come 
over  to  Pertuis  and  sing  at  high  Mass  on  the 
Feast  of  Pentecost.  Jaume  Deydier  was  at 
great  pains  to  explain  how  highly  the  great 
music-teacher  at  Avignon  thought  of  Nico- 
lette's  voice;  but  Ameyric  in  the  meanwhile 
had  swarmed  up  the  big  orange  tree.  It  had 
not  yet  been  picked  and  was  laden  with  blos- 
som. The  fragrance  from  it  was  such  that  it 
was  oppressive,  and  once  Ameyric  felt  as  if 
he  would  swoon  and  fall  off  the  tree.  But 


128  N  I  C  (XL  E  T  T  E 

this  feeling  soon  passed,  and  sitting  astride 
upon  a  bough,  he  picked  off  all  the  blossoms, 
gathering  them  into  his  blouse.  Then  when 
his  blouse  was  full,  he  held  on  to  it  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  started  pelting  Nico- 
lette  with  the  flowers :  he  threw  them  down  in 
huge  handfuls  one  after  the  other,  and  Nico- 
lette  stood  there  and  never  moved;  she  just 
let  the  petals  fall  about  her  like  snow,  until 
Ameyric  suddenly  loosened  the  corner  of  his 
blouse,  and  down  came  the  blossoms,  buds, 
flowers,  petals,  leaves,  twigs,  and  Nicolette 
had  to  bend  her  head  lest  these  struck  her  in 
the  face.  She  put  up  her  arms  and  started 
to  run,  but  Ameyric  was  down  on  the  ground 
and  after  her  within  a  second.  And  as  he  was 
the  swiftest  runner  of  the  country-side,  he  soon 
overtook  her  and  seized  her  hand,  and  went  on 
running,  dragging  her  after  him:  a  lad 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  seized  her  other  hand 
and  then  dragged  another  girl  after  him. 
The  next  moment  every  one  had  joined  in  this 
merry  race:  young  and  old,  grey  heads  and 
fair  heads  and  bald  heads,  all  holding  hands 
and  running,  running,  for  this  was  the  Faran- 
doulo,  and  the  whole  band  was  dragged  along 
by  Ameyric,  who  was  the  leader  and  who  had 
hold  of  Nicolette's  hand.  They  ran  and  they 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  129 

ran,  the  long  band  that  grew  longer  and 
longer  every  moment,  as  one  after  another 
every  one  joined  in:  the  girls,  the  boys,  the 
men,  Jaume  Deydier,  Marga'i,  and  even 
Mossou  le  Cure.  No  one  can  refuse  to  join 
in  the  Farandoulo.  In  and  out  of  the  orange 
trees,  round  and  round  and  up  and  down! — 
follow  my  leader! — and  woe  betide  him  or  her 
who  first  gets  breathless.  The  laughter,  the 
shouts  were  deafening. 

"Keep  up,  Magdeleine!" 

"Thou'rt  breaking  my  arm,  Glayse!" 

"Take  care,  Mossou  le  Cure  will  fall!" 

"Fall!  No!  and  if  he  does  we'll  pick  him 
up  again!" 

And  so  the  mad  Farandoulo  winds  its  way 
in  the  fragrant  grove  that  borders  the  dusty 
road.  And  down  that  road  coming  from 
Luberon  two  riders — a  man  and  a  woman — 
draw  rein,  and  hold  their  horses  in,  while  they 
gaze  toward  the  valley. 

"Now,  what  in  Heaven's  name  is  happening 
over  there?"  a  high-pitched  feminine  voice  asks 
somewhat  querulously. 

"I  should  not  wonder  they  were  dancing  a 
Farandoulo!"  the  man  replies. 

"What  in  the  world  is  that?" 


130  NICOLETTE 

"The  oldest  custom  in  Provence.  A  na- 
tional dance " 

"A  dance,  bon  Dieu!  I  should  call  it  a 
vulgar  brawl!" 

"It  is  quaint  and  original,  Rixende.  Come! 
It  will  amuse  you  to  watch." 

The  lady  shrugs  her  pretty  shoulders  and 
the  riders  put  their  horses  to  a  gentle  trot. 
Bertrand's  eyes  fixed  upon  that  serpentine 
band  of  humanity,  still  winding  its  merry  way 
amidst  the  trees,  have  taken  on  an  eager,  ex- 
cited glance.  The  Provencal  blood  in  his 
veins  leaps  in  face  of  this  ancient  custom  of 
his  native  land.  Rixende,  smothering  her 
ennui,  rides  silently  by  his  side.  Then  sud- 
denly one  or  two  amongst  that  riotous  throng 
have  perceived  the  riders:  the  inborn  shyness 
of  the  peasant  before  his  seigneur  seems  to 
check  the  laughter  on  their  lips,  their  shyness 
is  communicated  to  others,  and  gradually  one 
by  one,  they  fall  away ;  Mossou  le  Cure,  shame- 
faced, is  the  first  to  let  go;  he  mops  his  stream- 
ing forehead  and  watches  with  some  anxiety 
the  approach  of  the  strange  lady  in  her  gor- 
geous riding  habit  of  crimson  velvet,  her  fair 
curls  half  concealed  beneath  a  coquettish  tri- 
corne  adorned  with  a  falling  white  plume. 

"Mon  Dieu!    Mon  Dieu!"  he  mutters.    "I 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  131 

trust  they  did  not  perceive  me.  M.  le  Comte 
and  this  strange  lady:  what  will  they  think?" 

"Bah!"  Jaume  Deydier  replies  with  a  some- 
what ironic  laugh,  "  'tis  not  so  many  years 
ago  that  young  Bertrand  would  have  been 
proud  to  lead  the  Farandoulo  himself." 

"Ah!"  the  old  cure  murmurs  with  a  grave 
shake  of  his  old  head,  "but  he  has  changed 
since  then." 

"Yes,"  Deydier  assents  dryly:  "he  has 
changed." 

The  cure  would  have  said  something  more, 
but  a  loud,  rather  shrill,  cry  checks  the  words 
on  his  lips. 

"Mon  Dieu!    What  has  happened?" 

Nothing!  Only  that  Ameyric,  the  leader 
of  the  Farandoulo,  and  Nicolette  with  him 
had  been  about  the  only  ones  who  had  not 
perceived  the  approach  of  the  elegant  riders. 
It  is  an  understood  thing  that  one  by  one  the 
band  of  rioters  becomes  shorter  and  shorter, 
as  some  fall  out,  breathless  after  awhile,  and 
Ameyric,  who  was  half  wild  with  excitement 
to-day,  and  Nicolette,  whose  senses  were  reel- 
ing in  the  excitement  of  this  wild  rush  through 
perfume-laden  space  went  on  running,  run- 
ning, for  the  longer  the  Farandoulo  can  be 
kept  up  by  the  leaders  the  greater  is  the  hon- 


132  NICOLETTE 

our  that  awaits  them  in  the  end;  and  so  they 
ran,  these  two,  until  their  mad  progress  was 
suddenly  arrested  by  a  loud,  shrill  cry,  fol- 
lowed less  than  a  second  later  by  another  terri- 
fied one,  and  the  pawing  and  clanging  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  upon  the  hard  stony  road. 
Ameyric  was  only  just  in  time  to  drag  Nico- 
lette,  with  a  violent  jerk,  away  from  the  spot 
where  she  had  fallen  on  her  knees  right  under 
the  hoofs  of  a  scared  and  maddened  animal. 
The  beautiful  rider  in  gorgeous  velvet  habit 
was  vainly  trying  to  pacify  her  horse,  who, 
startled  by  a  sudden  clash  of  tambours,  was 
boring  and  champing  and  threatening  to  rear. 
Rixende,  not  a  very  experienced  rider,  had 
further  goaded  him  by  her  screams  and  by 
her  nervous  tugging  at  the  bridle:  she  did 
indeed  present  a  piteous  spectacle — her 
elegant  hat  had  slipped  down  from  her  head 
and  hung  by  its  ribbon  round  her  neck, 
her  hair  had  become  disarranged  and  her 
pretty  face  looked  crimson  and  hot,  whilst 
her  small  hands,  encased  in  richly  embroidered 
gloves,  clung  desperately  to  the  reins.  The 
untoward  incident,  however,  only  lasted  a  few 
seconds.  Already  one  of  Deydier's  men  had 
seized  the  bridle  of  the  fidgety  animal  and  Ber- 
trand,  bending  over  in  his  saddle,  succeeded 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  133 

not  only  in  quieting  the  horse,  but  also  in  sooth- 
ing his  loved  one's  temper;  he  helped  her  to 
readjust  her  hat  and  to  regain  her  seat,  he  re- 
arranged the  tumbled  folds  of  her  skirt,  and 
saw  to  her  stirrup  leather  and  the  comfort  of 
her  small,  exquisitely  shod  feet. 

But  Rixende  would  not  allow  herself  to  be 
coaxed  back  into  good  humour. 

"These  ignorant  louts!"  she  murmured  fret- 
fully, "don't  they  know  that  their  silly  din 
will  frighten  a  highly  strung  beast?" 

"It  was  an  accident,  Rixende,"  Bertrand 
protested:  "and  here,"  he  added,  "comes  M. 
le  Cure  to  offer  you  an  apology  for  his  flock." 

"Helas,  mademoiselle,"  M.  le  Cure  said,  with 
hands  held  up  in  genuine  concern,  as  he  hur- 
ried to  greet  M.  le  Comte  and  his  fair  •com- 
panion, "we  must  humbly  beg  your  pardon 
for  this  unfortunate  accident.  In  the  heat 
and  excitement  of  the  dance,  I  fear  me  the 
boys  and  girls  lost  their  heads  a  bit." 

"Lost  their  heads,  M.  le  Cure,"  Rixende  re- 
torted dryly.  "I  might  have  lost  my  life  by 
what  you  are  pleased  to  call  this  unfortunate 
accident.  Had  my  horse  taken  the  bit  be- 
tween his  teeth  ..." 

She  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  in  order 


134  NICOLETTE 

to  express  all  the  grim  possibilities  that  her 
words  had  conjured  up. 

"Oh!  Mademoiselle,"  le  cure  protested  be- 
nignly, "with  M.  le  Comte  by  your  side,  you 
were  as  safe  as  in  your  own  boudoir;  and 
every  lad  here  knows  how  to  stay  a  runaway 
horse." 

"Nay!"  Mademoiselle  rejoined  with  just  a 
thought  of  resentment  in  her  tone,  "methinks 
every  one  was  too  much  occupied  in  attending 
to  that  wench  yonder,  to  pay  much  heed  to 


me." 


For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  old  priest 
would  say  something  more,  but  he  certainly 
thought  better  of  it  and  pressed  his  lips  tightly 
together,  as  if  to  check  the  words  which  per- 
haps were  best  left  unsaid.  Indeed  there  ap- 
peared to  be  some  truth  in  Rixende's  com- 
plaint, for  while  she  certainly  was  the  object 
of  Bertrand's  tender  solicitude,  and  the  old 
cure  stood  beside  her  to  offer  sympathy  and 
apology  for  the  potential  accident,  all  the 
boys  and  girls,  the  men  and  women,,  were 
crowding  around  the  group  composed  of  Nico- 
lette,  Ameyric,  Margai  and  Jaume  Deydier. 

Nicolette  had  not  been  hurt,  thanks  to 
Ameyric's  promptitude,  but  she  had  been  in 
serious  danger  from  the  fretful,  maddened 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  135 

horse,  whom  his  rider  was  powerless  to  check. 
She  had  fallen  on  her  knees  and  was  bruised 
and  shaken,  but  already  she  was  laughing 
quite  gaily,  and  joking  over  her  father's 
anxiety  and  Margai's  fussy  ways.  Marga'i 
was  preparing  bandages  for  the  bruised  knee 
and  a  glass  of  orange  flower  water  for  her 
darling's  nerves,  whilst  rows  of  flushed  and 
sympathising  faces  peered  down  anxiously 
upon  the  unwilling  patient. 

"Eh!  Margai,  let  me  be,"  Nicolette  cried, 
and  jumped  to  her  feet,  to  show  that  she  was 
in  no  way  hurt.  "What  a  to-do,  to  be  sure. 
One  would  think  it  was  I  who  nearly  fell  from 
a  horse." 

"Women,"  muttered  Margai  crossly,  "who 
don't  know  how  to  sit  a  horse  should  not  be 
allowed  to  ride." 

And  rows  of  wise  young  heads  nodded  sage- 
ly in  assent. 

Rixende,  watching  this  little  scene  from  the 
road,  felt  querulous  and  irritated. 

"Who,"  she  asked  peremptorily,  "was  that 
fool  of  a  girl  who  threw  herself  between  my 
horse's  feet?" 

"It  was  our  little  Nicolette,"  the  cure  re- 
plied gently.  "The  child  was  running  and 
dancing,  and  Ameyric  dragged  her  so  fast  in 


136  NICOLETTE 

the  Farandoulo  that  she  lost  her  footing  and 
fell.  She  might  have  been  killed,"  the  old 
man  added  gravely. 

"Fortunately  I  had  my  horse  in  hand," 
Rixende  riposted  dryly.  'Twas  I  who 
might  have  been  killed." 

But  this  last  doleful  remark  of  hers  Ber- 
trand  did  not  hear.  He  was  at  the  moment 
engaged  in  fastening  his  horse's  bridle  to  a 
convenient  tree,  for  at  sound  of  Nicolette's 
name  he  had  jumped  out  of  the  saddle.  Nico- 
lette!  Poor  little  Nicolette  hurt!  He  must 
know,  he  must  know  at  once.  Just  for  the 
next  few  seconds  he  forgot  Rixende,  yes!  for- 
got her!  and  sped  across  the  road  and  through 
the  orange-grove  in  the  direction  of  that  dis- 
tant, agitated  group,  in  the  midst  of  which 
he  feared  to  find  poor  little  Nicolette  mangled 
and  bleeding. 

Rixende  called  peremptorily  after  him. 
She  thought  Bertrand  indifferent  to  the  dan- 
ger which  she  had  run,  and  indifference  was 
a  manlike  condition  which  she  could  not  toler- 
ate. 

"Bertrand,"  she  called,  "Bertrand,  come 
back." 

But  he  did  not  hear  her,  which  further  exas- 
perated her  nerves.  She  turned  to  the  old 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  is? 

cure  who  was  standing  by  rather  uncomfor- 
tably, longing  for  an  excuse  to  go  and  see  how 
Nicolette  was  faring. 

"M.  le  Cure,"  Rixende  said  tartly,  "I  pray 
you  tell  M.  le  Comte  that  my  nerves  are  on 
edge,  and  that  I  must  return  home  immediate- 
ly. If  he'll  not  accompany  me,  then  must  I 
go  alone." 

"At  your  service,  mademoiselle,"  the  old 
priest  responded  readily  enough,  and  picked 
up  his  soutane  ready  to  follow  M.  le  Comte 
through  the  grove.  For  the  moment  he  had 
disappeared,  but  a  few  seconds  later  the 
group  of  harvesters  parted  and  disclosed  Ber- 
trand  standing  beside  Nicolette. 

"Xicolette!"  Bertrand  had  exclaimed  as 
soon  as  he  saw  her.  He  felt  immensely  re- 
lieved to  find  that  she  was  not  hurt,  but  at 
sight  of  her  he  suddenly  felt  shy  and  awk- 
ward; he  who  was  accustomed  to  meet  the 
grandest  and  most  beautiful  ladies  of  the 
Court  at  Versailles. 

"Why,"  he  went  on  with  a  nervous  little 
laugh,  "how  you  have  grown." 

Nicolette  looked  a  little  pale,  which  was 
no  wonder,  seeing  what  a  fright  she  had  had: 
but  at  sight  of  Bertrand  a  deep  glow  ran 
right  up  her  cheeks,  and  tinged  even  her  round 


138  NICOLETTE 

young  throat  down  to  her  shoulders  under  the 
transparent  fichu.  The  boys  and  girls  who 
had  been  crowding  round  her  fell  back  re- 
spectfully as  M.  le  Comte  approached,  and 
even  Ameyric  stood  aside,  only  Margai  and 
Jaume  Deydier  remained  beside  Nicolette. 

"You  have  grown!"  Bertrand  reiterated 
somewhat  foolishly. 

"Do  you  think  so,  M.  le  Comte?"  Nicolette 
murmured  shyly. 

The  fact  that  she,  too,  appeared  awkward 
had  the  effect  of  dissipating  Bertrand's  ner- 
vousness in  the  instant. 

"Call  me  Bertrand  at  once,"  he  cried  gaily, 
"you  naughty  child  who  would  forget  her 
playmate  Bertrand,  or  Tan-tan  if  you  wish, 
and  give  me  a  kiss  at  once,  or  I  shall  think 
that  you  have  the  habit  of  turning  your  back 
on  your  friends." 

He  tried  to  snatch  a  kiss,  but  Nicolette 
evaded  him  with  a  laugh,  and  at  that  very 
moment  Bertrand  caught  sight  of  Jaume  Dey- 
dier, whom  he  greeted  a  little  shamefacedly, 
but  with  hearty  goodwill.  After  which  it  was 
the  turn  of  Margai,  whom  he  kissed  on  both 
cheeks,  despite  her  grumblings  and  mutter- 
ings,  and  of  the  boys  and  girls  whom  he  had 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  139 

not  seen  for  over  five  years.  Amongst  them 
Ameyric. 

"Eh  Hen,  Ameyric!"  he  cried  jovially,  and 
held  out  a  cordial  hand  to  the  lad:  "are  you 
going  to  beat  me  at  the  bar  and  the  disc  now 
that  I  am  out  of  practice!  Mon  Dieu,  what 
bouts  we  used  to  have,  what  ?  and  how  we  hated 
one  another  in  those  days !" 

Every  one  was  delighted  with  M.  le  Comte. 
How  handsome  he  was!  How  gay!  Proud? 
Why,  no  one  could  be  more  genial,  more  kind- 
ly than  he.  He  shook  hands  with  all  the  men, 
kissed  one  or  two  of  the  prettiest  girls  and  all 
the  old  women  on  both  cheeks:  even  Marga'i 
ceased  to  mutter  uncomplimentary  remarks 
about  him,  and  even  Jaume  Deydier  unbent. 
He  admitted  to  those  who  stood  near  him  that 
M.  le  Comte  had  changed  immensely  to  his 
own  advantage.  And  Xicolette  leaned 
against  the  old  orange  tree,  the  doyen  of  the 
grove,  feeling  a  little  breathless.  Her  heart 
was  beating  furiously  beneath  her  kerchief, 
because,  no  doubt,  she  had  not  yet  rested  from 
that  wild  Farandoulo.  The  glow  had  not  left 
her  cheeks,  and  had  added  a  curious  brilliance 
to  her  eyes.  The  mad  dancing  and  running 
had  disarranged  her  hair,  and  the  brown  curls 


140  NICOLETTE 

tumbled  about  her  face  just  as  they  used  to  do 
of  old  when  she  was  still  a  child:  in  her  small 
brown  hands  she  twirled  a  piece  of  orange- 
blossom. 

At  one  moment  Bertrand  looked  round, 
and  their  eyes  met.  In  that  glance  the  whole 
of  his  childhood  seemed  to  be  mirrored:  the 
woods,  the  long,  rafted  corridors,  the  mad,  glad 
pranks  of  boyhood,  the  climbs  up  the  moun- 
tain-side, the  races  up  the  terraced  gradients, 
the  slaying  of  dragons  and  rescuing  of  captive 
maidens.  And  all  at  once  he  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed,  just  laughed  from  the  sheer 
joy  of  these  memories  of  the  past  and  delight 
in  the  present;  joy  at  finding  himself  here, 
amidst  the  mountains  of  old  Provence,  whose 
summits  and  crags  dissolved  in  the  brilliant 
azure  overhead,  with  the  perfume  of  orange- 
blossom  going  to  his  head  like  wine. 

And  because  M.  le  Comte  laughed,  one  by 
one  the  boys  and  girls  joined  in  his  merriment: 
they  laughed  and  sang,  no  longer  the  sweet  sad 
chaunt  of  the  "Rossignou,"  but  rather  the  gay 
ditties  of  La  Farandoulo. 

"  La  Farandoulo  ?     La  faren 
Lou  cor  gai  la  testo  flourido 
E  la  faren  tant  que  voudren 
En  aio  !     En  aio  !  " 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  141 

It  was,  in  truth,  most  unfortunate  that  it  all 
happened  so:  for  Rixende  had  watched  the 
whole  of  the  scene  from  the  moment  when  she 
sent  the  old  cure  peremptorily  to  order  Ber- 
trand  to  come  back  to  her.  But  instead  of  de- 
livering the  message  he  seemed  to  have  mixed 
himself  up  with  all  those  noisy  louts,  and  to 
have  become  a  part  of  that  group  that  stood 
gaping  around  the  girl  Nicolette.  Rixende 
saw  how  Bertrand  greeted  the  girl,  how  he  was 
soon  surrounded  by  a  rowdy,  chattering 
throng,  she  saw  how  he  tried  to  kiss  the  girls, 
how  he  embraced  the  women,  how  happy  he 
seemed  amongst  all  these  people :  so  happy,  in 
fact,  that  he  appeared  wholly  to  have  forgotten 
her,  Rixende.  And  she  was  forced  to  wait  till 
it  was  his  good  pleasure  to  remember  her.  No 
wonder  that  this  spoilt  child  of  fashionable 
Versailles  lost  her  temper  the  while.  Her 
horse  was  still  restive,  his  boring  tired  her:  she 
could  not  trot  off  by  herself,  chiefly  because 
she  would  not  have  cared  to  ride  alone  in  this 
strange  and  dour  country  where  she  was  a 
complete  stranger.  True!  it  was  selfish  and 
thoughtless  of  Bertrand  thus  to  forget  her. 
He  was  only  away  from  her  side  a  few  minutes 
— six  at  most — but  these  were  magnified  into 
half  an  hour,  and  she  was  really  not  altogether 


142  NICOLETTE 

to  blame  for  greeting  him  with  black  looks, 
when  presently  he  came  back  to  her,  leading 
that  stupid  peasant  wench  by  the  hand,  and 
speaking  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
he  had  done  nothing  that  required  forgiveness. 

"This  is  Nicolette  Deydier,  my  Rixende," 
he  said  quite  unconcernedly.  'Though  she  is 
so  young,  she  is  my  oldest  friend.  I  sincerely 
hope  that  you  and  she — 

"Mademoiselle  Deydier  and  I,"  Rixende 
broke  in  tartly,  "can  make  acquaintance  at  a 
more  propitious  time.  But  I  have  been  kept 
too  long  for  conversation  with  strangers  now. 
I  pray  you  let  us  go  hence,  Bertrand ;  the  heat, 
the  sun,  and  all  the  noise  have  given  me  a 
headache." 

At  the  first  petulant  words  Nicolette  had 
quietly  withdrawn  her  hand  from  Bertrand's 
grasp.  She  stood  by  silent,  deeply  hurt  by  the 
other's  rudeness,  vaguely  commiserating  with 
Bertrand  for  the  sorry  figure  which  he  was 
made  to  cut.  He  did  his  best  to  pacify  his 
somewhat  vixenish-tempered  fiancee,  and  in 
his  efforts  did  certainly  forget  to  make  amends 
to  Nicolette,  and  after  a  hasty,  kindly  pressure 
of  her  hand,  he  paid  no  further  heed  to  her. 

Only  when  Rixende,  with  a  vicious  cut  at 
her  horse  with  her  riding-crop,  gave  the  signal 


ORANGE-BLOSSOM  143 

for  departure,  did  Bertrand  send  back  a  fare- 
well smile  to  Nicolette.  She  stood  there  for  a 
long,  long  while  on  the  edge  of  the  road ;  even 
while  a  cloud  of  white  dust  hid  the  two  riders 
from  her  view,  she  gazed  out  in  the  direction 
where  they  had  vanished. 

So  this  was  the  lovely  Rixende,  the  woman 
whom  Bertrand  had  loved  even  before  he  had 
set  eyes  on  her:  the  lady  of  his  dreams,  whom 
he  was  going  to  nickname  Riande,  because  she 
would  be  always  laughing;  and  he  would  love 
her  so  much  and  so  tenderly  that  she  would 
never  long  for  the  gaieties  of  Paris  and  Ver- 
sailles, but  be  content  to  live  with  him  in  his 
fair  home  of  Provence,  where  the  flower  of  the 
gentian  in  the  spring  and  the  dome  of  heaven 
above  would  seem  but  the  mirrors  of  her  blue 
eyes. 

With  a  tightening  at  her  heart-strings,  Nico- 
lette thought  of  the  dainty  face  with  its  deli- 
cate, porcelain-like  skin  puckered  up  with  lines 
of  petulance,  the  gentian-blue  eyes  with  their 
hard,  metallic  glitter,  and  the  tiny  mouth  with 
the  thin  red  lips  set  into  a  pout.  And  she 
sighed,  because  she  had  also  noticed  at  the 
same  time  that  there  was  a  look  of  discontent 
and  weariness  in  Bertrand's  face  when  he 


144  NICOLETTE 

finally  rode  away  at  the  bidding  of  his  imperi- 
ous queen. 

"Oh!  Holy  Virgin,  Mother  of  God,"  Nico- 
lette  murmured  fervently  under  her  breath, 
"pray  to  our  Lord  that  He  may  allow  Ber- 
trand  to  be  happy." 

The  next  moment  her  father's  voice  from 
the  distance  roused  her  from  her  dreams : 

"Nicolette!  Hey,  Nicolette!  Don't  stand 
there  dreaming,  child!" 

She  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  grove;  the 
day  was  still  young,  and  the  harvesters  were 
at  work  already.  But  every  one  noticed  that 
for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Mademoiselle 
Nicolette  was  more  silent  than  was  her  wont. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TWILIGHT 

f  I  ^HE  second  time  that  Nicolette  saw  the 
A  lovely  Rixende  she  looked  very  different 
from  the  shrewish,  nervous  rider  who  forgot 
her  manners  and  created  such  an  unfavourable 
impression  on  the  country-side  a  week  ago. 

Nicolette,  urged  thereto  by  Micheline,  had 
at  last  consented  to  come  over  to  the  chateau 
in  order  to  be  formally  introduced  to  Ber- 
trand's  fiancee. 

It  was  Whit- Sunday,  and  a  glorious  after- 
noon. When  Nicolette  arrived  she  found  the 
entire  family  assembled  on  the  terrace.  A 
table,  spread  with  a  beautiful  lace  cloth,  was 
laden  with  all  kinds  of  delicacies,  such  as  even 
Margai  over  at  the  mas  could  not  have  known 
how  to  bake :  gateaux  and  brioches,  and  babas, 
and  jars  of  cream  and  cups  of  chocolate.  The 
old  Comtesse  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  her 
white  hair  dressed  high  above  her  head  in 
the  stately  mode  of  forty  years  ago,  and  em- 
bellished with  a  magnificent  jewelled  comb. 

145 


146  NICOLETTE 

Her  dress  was  of  rich,  purple  brocade,  made 
after  the  fashion  which  prevailed  before  the 
Revolution,  with  hoops  and  panniers,  and 
round  her  neck  she  wore  a  magnificent  rope  of 
pearls.  There  were  rings  on  her  fingers  set 
with  gems  that  sparkled  in  the  sunlight  as  she 
raised  the  silver  jug  and  poured  some  choco- 
late out  into  a  delicate  porcelain  cup. 

Nicolette  could  scarce  believe  her  eyes. 
There  was  such  an  air  of  splendour  about  old 
Madame  to-day! 

Micheline,  too,  looked  different.  She  had 
discarded  the  plain,  drab  stuff  gown  she  al- 
ways wore,  and  had  on  a  prettily  made, 
dainty  muslin  frock  which  made  her  look 
younger,  less  misshapen  somehow  than  usual. 
Her  mother  alone  appeared  out  of  key  in  the 
highly  coloured  picture.  Though  she,  too,  had 
on  a  silk  gown,  it  was  of  the  same  unrelieved 
black  which  she  had  never  discarded  since 
Nicolette  could  remember  anything.  But  the 
chair  in  which  she  reclined  was  covered  in  rich 
brocade,  and  her  poor,  tired  head  rested  upon 
gorgeously  embroidered  cushions.  The  centre 
of  interest  in  this  family  group,  however,  was 
that  delicate  figure  of  loveliness  that  reclined 
in  an  elegant  bergere  in  the  midst  of  a  veritable 
cloud  of  muslin  and  lace,  all  adorned  with  rib- 


TWILIGHT  147 

bons  less  blue  than  her  eyes.  With  a  quick 
glance,  even  as  she  approached,  Nicolette 
took  in  every  detail  of  the  dainty  apparition: 
from  the  exquisite  head  with  its  wealth  of 
golden  curls,  modishly  dressed  with  a  high 
tortoiseshell  comb,  down  to  the  tiny  feet  in 
transparent  silk  stockings  and  sandal  shoes  that 
rested  on  a  cushion  of  crimson  velvet,  on  the 
corner  of  which  Bertrand  sat,  or  rather 
crouched,  with  arms  folded  and  head  raised  to 
gaze  unhindered  on  his  beloved. 

Micheline  was  the  first  to  catch  sight  of  her 
friend. 

"Nicolette,"  she  cried,  and  struggled  to  her 
feet,  "come  quick!  We  are  waiting  for  you." 

She  ran  to  Xicolette  as  fast  as  her  poor  lame 
leg  would  allow,  and  Nicolette,  who  a  moment 
ago  had  been  assailed  with  the  terrible  tempta- 
tion to  play  the  coward  and  to  run  away,  away 
from  this  strange  scene,  was  compelled  to 
come  forward  to  greet  the  older  ladies  by  kiss- 
ing their  hands  as  was  customary,  and  to  mix 
with  all  these  people  who,  she  vaguely  felt, 
were  hostile  to  her.  The  Comtesse  Marcelle 
had  given  her  a  friendly  kiss.  But  she  felt 
like  an  intruder,  a  dependent  who  is  tolerated, 
without  being  very  welcome  in  the  family 
circle.  All  her  pride  rebelled  against  the  feel- 


148  NICOLETTE 

ing,  even  though  she  could  not  combat  it.  It 
was  Bertrand  who  made  her  feel  so  shy.  He 
had  risen  very  slowly  and  very  deliberately  to 
his  feet,  and  it  was  with  a  formal  bow  and  af- 
fected manner  that  he  approached  Nicolette 
and  took  her  hand,  then  formally  presented 
her  to  his  fiancee. 

"Mademoiselle  Nicolette  Deydier,"  he  said, 
"our  neighbour's  daughter." 

He  did  not  say  "my  oldest  friend"  this  time. 
And  Mademoiselle  de  Peyron-Bompar  tore 
herself  away  from  the  contemplation  of  a  box 
of  bonbons  in  order  to  gaze  on  Nicolette  with 
languid  interest.  There  was  quite  a  meas- 
ure of  impertinence  in  the  glance  which  she 
bestowed  on  the  girl's  plain  muslin  gown,  on 
the  priceless  fichu  of  old  Mechlin  which  she 
wore  round  her  graceful  shoulders  and  on  the 
string  of  rare  pearls  around  her  neck.  Nico- 
lette  felt  tongue-tied  and  was  furious  with  her- 
self for  her  awkwardness;  she,  who  was  called 
little  chatter-box  by  her  father  and  by  Margai, 
could  find  nothing  to  say  but  "Yes!"  or  "No!" 
or  short,  prim  answers  to  Rixende's  super- 
cilious queries. 

"Was  the  harvesting  of  orange-blossom  fin- 
ished?" 

"Not  quite." 


TWILIGHT  149 

"What  ennui!  The  smell  of  the  flowers  is 
enough  to  give  one  the  migraine.  How  long 
would  it  last?" 

"Another  week  perhaps." 

"And  does  that  noisy  dance  always  accom- 
pany the  harvesting?" 

"Always  when  the  boys  and  girls  are  merry." 

"What  ennui!  the  noise  of  those  abominable 
tambourines  could  be  heard  as  far  as  the 
chateau  yesterday.  One  could  not  get  one's 
afternoon  siesta." 

"Have  a  cup  of  chocolate,  Nicolette!"  Mi- 
cheline  suggested  by  way  of  a  diversion  as  the 
conversation  threatened  to  drop  altogether. 

"No,  thank  you,  Micheline!"  Nicolette  re- 
plied, "I  had  some  chocolate  before  I  came." 

It  was  all  so  awkward,  and  so  very,  very 
unreal.  To  Nicolette  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
in  a  dream:  the  old  Comtesse's  jewelled  comb, 
the  brocade  chair,  the  silver  on  the  table,  it 
could  not  be  real.  The  old  chateau  of  Venta- 
dour  was  the  home  of  old  tradition,  not  of 
garish  modernity,  it  lived  in  a  rarefied  old- 
world  atmosphere  that  had  rendered  it  very 
dear  to  Nicolette,  and  all  this  rich  parapher- 
nalia of  good  living  and  fine  clothes  threw  a 
mantle  of  falsehood  almost  of  vulgarity  over 
the  place. 


150  NICOLETTE 

Nicolette  found  nothing  more  to  say,  and 
Micheline  looked  hurt  and  puzzled  that  her 
friend  did  not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  this 
beautiful  unreality.  She  appeared  to  be  rack- 
ing her  brain  for  something  to  say :  but  no  one 
helped  her  out.  The  old  Comtesse  had  not 
opened  her  lips  since  Nicolette  had  come  upon 
the  scene.  Bertrand  was  too  busily  engaged 
in  devouring  his  beautiful  fiancee  with  his  eyes 
to  pay  heed  to  any  one  else,  and  the  lovely 
Rixende  was  even  at  this  moment  smothering 
a  yawn  behind  her  upraised  fan. 

It  was  the  Comtesse  Marcelle,  anxious  and 
gentle,  who  relieved  the  tension: 

"Micheline,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you 
take  Nicolette  into  the  boudoir  and  show 

her ?"  Then  she  smiled  and  added  with  a 

pathetic  little  air  of  gaiety:  "you  know  what?" 

This  suggestion  delighted  Micheline. 

"Of  course,"  she  cried  excitedly.  "I  was 
forgetting.  Come,  Nicolette,  and  I  will  show 
you  something  that  will  surprise  you." 

She  had  assumed  a  mysterious  mien  and 
now  led  the  way  into  the  house.  Nicolette  fol- 
lowed her,  ready  to  fall  in  with  anything  that 
would  take  her  away  from  here.  The  two 
girls  went  across  the  terrace  together,  and  the 
last  words  which  struck  Nicolette's  ears  before 


TWILIGHT  151 

they  went  into  the  house  came  from  Made- 
moiselle de  Peyron-Bompar. 

"The  wench  is  quite  pretty,"  she  was  saying 
languidly,  "in  a  milkmaid  fashion,  of  course. 
You  never  told  me,  Bertrand,  that  you  had  a 
rustic  beauty  in  these  parts.  She  represents 
your  calf-love,  I  presume." 

Nicolette  actually  felt  hot  tears  rising  to  her 
eyes,  but  she  succeeded  in  swallowing  them, 
whilst  Micheline  exclaimed  with  naive  enthu- 
siasm : 

"Isn't  Rixende  beautiful?  How  can  you 
wonder,  Nicolette,  that  Bertrand  loves  her  so?" 

Fortunately  Nicolette  was  not  called  upon 
to  make  a  reply.  She  had  followed  Micheline 
through  the  tall  French  window  in  the  draw- 
ing-room and  in  very  truth  she  was  entirely 
dumb  with  surprise.  The  room  was  trans- 
formed in  a  manner  which  she  would  not  have 
thought  possible.  It  is  true  that  she  had  not 
been  inside  the  chateau  for  many  months,  but 
even  so,  it  seemed  as  if  a  fairy  godmother  had 
waved  her  magic  wand  and  changed  the  faded 
curtains  into  gorgeous  brocades,  the  tattered 
carpets  into  delicate  Aubussons,  the  broken- 
down  chairs  with  protruding  stuffing  into  lux- 
urious fauteuils,  covered  in  elegant  tapestries. 
There  were  flowers  in  cut-glass  bowls,  books 


152  NICOLETTE 

laid  negligently  on  the  tables;  an  open  escri- 
toire displayed  a  silver-mounted  inkstand, 
whilst  like  a  crowning  ornament  to  this  beauti- 
fully furnished  room,  a  spinet  in  inlaid  rose- 
wood case  stood  in  the  corner  beside  the  far- 
thest window,  with  a  pile  of  music  upon  it. 

Micheline  had  come  to  a  halt  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  watching  with  glee  the  look  of 
utter  surprise  and  bewilderment  on  her  friend's 
face,  and  when  Nicolette  stood  there,  dumb, 
looking  about  her  as  she  would  on  a  dream  pic- 
ture, Micheline  clapped  her  hands  with  joy. 

"Nicolette,"  she  cried,  "do  sing  something, 
then  you  will  know  that  it  is  all  real." 

And  Nicolette  sat  down  at  the  spinet  and 
her  fingers  wandered  for  awhile  idly  over  the 
keys.  Surely  it  must  all  be  a  dream.  A 
spook  had  gone  by  and  transformed  the  dear 
old  chateau  into  an  ogre's  palace :  it  had  cast  a 
spell  over  poor,  trusting  Micheline,  and  set  up 
old  Madame  as  a  presiding  genius  over  this 
new  world  which  was  so  unlike,  so  pathetically 
unlike  the  old;  whilst  through  this  ogre's  pal- 
ace there  flitted  a  naughty,  mischief  making 
sprite,  with  blue  eyes  and  golden  curls,  a  sprite 
all  adorned  with  lace  and  ribbons  and  exquisite 
to  behold,  who  held  dainty,  jewelled  fingers 


TWILIGHT  153 

right  over  Bertrand's  eyes  so  that  he  could 
no  longer  see. 

Gradually  the  dream-mood  took  stronger 
and  yet  stronger  hold  of  Nicolette's  spirit :  and 
she  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  her  fingers 
were  doing.  Instinctively  they  had  wandered 
and  wandered  over  the  keys,  playing  a  few  bars 
of  one  melody  and  then  of  another,  the  player's 
mind  scarcely  following  them.  But  now  they 
settled  down  to  the  one  air  that  is  always  the 
dearest  of  all  to  every  heart  in  Provence:  "lou 
Roussignou!" 

"  Lou  Roussignou  che  vola,  vola  !  " 

Nicolette's  sweet  young  voice  rose  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  soft-toned  spinet.  She 
sang,  hardly  knowing  that  she  did  so,  cer- 
tainly not  noticing  Micheline's  rapt  little  face 
of  admiration,  or  that  the  tall  window  was  open 
and  allowed  the  rasping  voice  of  Rixende  to 
penetrate  so  far. 

Micheline  heard  it,  and  tiptoed  as  far  as  the 
window.  Rixende  had  jumped  to  her  feet. 
She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  terrace,  with 
all  her  laces  and  ribbons  billowing  around  her 
and  her  hands  held  up  to  her  ears : 

"Oh!  that  stupid  song!"   she  cried,   "that 


154  N  I  COLETTE 

monotonous,  silly  refrain  gets  on  my  nerves. 
Bertrand,  take  me  away  where  I  cannot  hear 
it,  or  I  vow  that  I  shall  scream." 

Micheline  stepped  out  through  the  window, 
from  a  safe  distance  she  gazed  in  utter  bewil- 
derment at  Rixende  whom  she  had  hitherto 
admired  so  whole-heartedly  and  who  at  this  mo- 
ment looked  like  an  angry  little  vixen.  Ber- 
trand, on  the  other  hand,  tried  to  make  a  joke 
of  the  whole  thing. 

"The  sooner  you  accustom  your  sweet  ears 
to  that  song,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "the  sooner 
will  you  become  a  true  Queen  of  Provence." 

"But  I  have  no  desire  to  become  a  Queen  of 
Provence,"  Rixende  retorted  dryly,  "I  hate 
this  dull,  dreary  country " 

"Rixende!"  Bertrand  protested,  suddenly 
sobered  by  an  utterance  which  appeared  to  him 
nothing  short  of  blasphemy. 

"Eh!  what,"  she  retorted  tartly,  "you  do  not 
suppose,  my  dear  Bertrand,  that  I  find  this 
place  very  entertaining?  Or  did  you  really 
see  me  with  your  mind's  eye  finding  delectation 
in  rushing  round  orange  trees  in  the  company 
of  a  lot  of  perspiring  louts?" 

"No,"  Bertrand  replied  gently,  "I  can  only 
picture  you  in  my  mind's  eye  as  the  exquisite 
fairy  that  you  are.  But  I  must  confess  that  I 


TWILIGHT  155 

also  see  you  as  the  Queen  ruling  over  these 
lands  that  are  the  birthright  of  our  race." 

"Very  prettily  said,"  Rixende  riposted  with 
a  sarcastic  curl  of  her  red  lips,  "y°u  were  al- 
ways a  master  of  florid  diction,  my  dear.  But 
let  me  assure  you  that  I  much  prefer  to  queen 
it  over  a  Paris  salon  than  over  a  half-empty 
barrack  like  this  old  chateau." 

Bertrand  threw  a  rapid,  comprehensive 
glance  over  the  old  pile  that  held  all  his  family 
pride,  all  the  glorious  traditions  of  his  for- 
bears. There  was  majesty  even  in  its  ruins: 
whole  chapters  of  the  history  of  France  had 
been  unfolded  within  its  walls. 

"I  find  the  half-empty  barrack  beautiful," 
he  murmured  with  a  quick,  sharp  sigh. 

"Of  course  it  is  beautiful,  Bertrand,"  Rix- 
ende rejoined,  with  that  quick  transition  from 
petulance  to  coquetry  which  seemed  one  of  her 
chief  characteristics.  "It  is  beautiful  to  me, 
because  it  is  dear  to  you." 

She  clasped  her  two  tiny  hands  around  his 
arm  and  turned  her  gentian-blue  eyes  up  to 
him.  He  looked  down  at  the  dainty  face, 
rendered  still  more  exquisite  by  the  flush  which 
still  lingered  on  her  cheeks.  She  looked  so 
frail,  so  fairy-like,  such  a  perfect  embodiment 
of  all  that  was  most  delicate,  most  appealing  in 


156  NICOLETTE 

womanhood ;  she  was  one  of  those  women  who 
have  the  secret  of  rousing  every  instinct  of  pro- 
tection and  chivalry  in  a  man,  and  command 
love  and  devotion  where  a  more  self-reliant, 
more  powerful  personality  fails  even  to  attract. 
A  look  of  infinite  tenderness  came  into  Ber- 
trand's  face  as  he  gazed  on  the  lovely  upturned 
face,  and  into  those  blue  eyes  wherein  a  few 
tears  were  slowly  gathering.  He  felt  sudden- 
ly brutish  and  coarse  beside  this  ethereal  being, 
whose  finger-tips  he  was  not  worthy  to  touch. 
He  felt  that  there  was  nothing  which  he  could 
do,  no  act  of  worship  or  of  self-abnegation, 
that  would  in  any  way  repay  her  marvellous 
condescension  in  stepping  out  of  her  kingdom 
amongst  the  clouds,  in  order  to  come  down  to 
his  level. 

And  she,  quick  to  notice  the  varying  moods 
expressed  in  his  face,  felt  that  she  had  gone  yet 
another  step  in  her  entire  conquest  of  him. 
She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  content,  threw  him  one 
more  ravishing  look,  then  said  lightly: 

"Let  us  wander  away  together,  Bertrand, 
shall  we?  We  seem  never  to  have  any  time  all 
to  ourselves." 

Bertrand,  wholly  subjugated,  captured  Rix- 
ende's  little  hand,  and  drawing  it  under  his 


TWILIGHT  157 

arm,  led  her  away  in  the  direction  of  the  wood. 
Micheline  continued  to  gaze  after  them,  a  puz- 
zled frown  between  her  brows.  Neither  her 
mother  nor  her  grandmother  had  joined  in  the 
short  sparring  match  between  the  two  lovers, 
but  Micheline,  whom  infirmity  had  rendered 
keenly  observant,  was  quick  to  note  the  look 
of  anxiety  which  her  mother  cast  in  the  direc- 
tion where  Rixende's  dainty  gown  was  just 
disappearing  among  the  trees. 

"That  girl  will  never  be  happy  here " 

she  murmured  as  if  to  herself. 

Old  Madame  who  still  sat  erect  and  stiff  at 
the  head  of  the  table  broke  in  sharply: 

"Once  she  is  married  to  Bertrand,"  she  said, 
"Rixende  will  have  to  realise  that  she  repre- 
sents a  great  name,  and  that  her  little  bourgeois 
ideas  of  pleasure  and  pomp  are  sadly  out  of 
key  in  this  place  where  her  husband's  ancestors 
have  been  the  equal  of  kings." 

The  Comtesse  Marcelle  sighed  drearily. 

"Yes,  when  she  is  married — but " 

"But  what,"  grandmama  queried  sharply. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  if  that  marriage  will 
make  for  Bertrand's  happiness." 

"Bertrand's  happiness,"  the  old  Comtesse 
echoed  with  a  harsh  laugh,  "Hark  at  the  sen- 
timental schoolgirl!  My  dear  Marcelle!  to 


158  NICOLETTE 

hear  you  talk,  one  would  think  you  had  not 
lived  through  twenty-five  years  of  grinding 
poverty.  In  Heaven's  name  have  you  not  yet 
realised  that  the  only  possible  happiness  for 
Bertrand  lies  in  a  brilliant  marriage.  We 
have  plunged  too  deeply  into  the  stream  now, 
we  cannot  turn  back,  we  must  swim  with  the 
tide — or  sink — there  is  no  middle-way." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  the  younger  woman  re- 
plied meekly.  "Debts,  more  debts!  more 
debts!  O,  my  God!"  she  moaned  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands;  "as  if  they  had  not  wrought 
enough  mischief  already.  More  debts,  and 
if " 

"And  now  you  talk  like  a  fool,"  the  old  Com- 
tesse  broke  in  tartly.  "Would  you  have  had  the 
girl  come  here  and  find  that  all  your  carpets 
were  in  rags,  your  cushions  moth-eaten,  the 
family  silver  turned  to  lead  or  brass  ?  Would 
you  have  had  her  find  the  Comtesse  de  Venta- 
dour  in  a  patched  and  darned  gown,  waited  on 
by  a  lad  from  the  village  in  sabots  and  an  un- 
washed shirt  that  reeked  of  manure?  Yes," 
she  went  on  in  that  firm,  decisive  tone  against 
which  no  one  at  the  chateau  had  ever  dared 
to  make  a  stand,  "yes,  I  did  advise  Bertrand 
to  borrow  a  little  more  money,  in  order  that 
his  family  should  not  be  shamed  before  his 


TWILIGHT  159 

fiancee.  But  you  may  rest  assured,  my  good 
Marcelle,  that  the  usurers  who  lent  him  the 
money  would  not  have  done  it  were  they  not 
satisfied  that  he  would  in  the  very  near  fu- 
ture be  able  to  meet  all  his  liabilities.  You  live 
shut  away  from  all  the  civilised  world,  but 
every  one  in  Paris  knows  that  M.  le  Comte  de 
Ventadour  is  co-heir  with  his  fiancee,  Mile,  de 
Peyron-Bompar,  to  the  Mont-Pahon  millions. 
Bertrand  had  no  difficulty  in  raising  the 
money,  he  will  have  none  in  repaying  it,  and 
Jaume  Deydier  is  already  regretting,  I  make 
no  doubt,  the  avarice  which  prompted  him  to 
refuse  to  help  his  seigneurs  in  their  short-lived 
difficulty." 

The  Comtesse  Marcelle  uttered  a  cry,  al- 
most of  horror. 

"Deydier!"  she  exclaimed,  "surely,  Madame* 
you  did  not  ask  him  to ?" 

"I  asked  him  to  lend  me  five  thousand  louis, 
until  the  marriage  contract  between  Bertrand 
and  Mile.  Peyron-Bompar  was  signed.  I  con- 
fess that  I  did  him  too  much  honour,  for  he  re- 
fused. Bah!  those  louts!"  grandmama  added 
with  lofty  scorn,  "they  have  no  idea  of  honour." 

The  Comtesse  Marcelle  said  nothing  more, 
only  a  deep  flush  rose  to  her  wan  cheeks,  and 
to  hide  it  from  the  scathing  eyes  of  her  mother- 


160  NICOLETTE 

in-law  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Mi- 
cheline's  heart  was  torn  between  the  desire  to 
run  and  comfort  her  mother  and  her  fear  of 
grandmama's  wrath  if  she  did  so.  Instinc- 
tively she  looked  behind  her,  and  then  gave  a 
gasp.  Nicolette  was  standing  in  the  window 
embrasure,  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her; 
Micheline  could  not  conjecture  how  much  she 
had  heard  of  the  conversation  that  had  been 
carried  on  on  the  terrace  this  past  quarter  of 
an  hour.  The  girl's  face  wore  a  strange  ex- 
pression of  detachment  as  if  her  spirit  were  not 
here  at  all;  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  gazing  in- 
wardly, into  her  own  soul. 

"Nicolette,"  Micheline  exclaimed. 

Nicolette  started,  as  if  in  truth  she  were 
waking  from  a  dream. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  she  said  quietly, 
"that  it  is  getting  late;  I  must  be  going. 
Margai  will  be  anxious." 

She  stepped  over  the  window  sill  on  to  the 
terrace,  and  threw  her  arms  round  Micheline 
who  was  obviously  struggling  with  insistent 
tears.  Then  she  went  over  to  the  table,  where 
the  two  ladies  were  sitting.  She  dropped  the 
respectful  curtsy  which  usage  demanded  from 
young  people  when  taking  leave  of  their  elders. 
The  Comtesse  Marcelle  extended  a  friendly 


TWILIGHT  161 

hand  to  her,  which  Nicolette  kissed  affection- 
ately, but  old  Madame  only  nodded  her  head 
with  stately  aloofness:  and  Nicolette  was 
thankful  to  escape  from  this  atmosphere  of 
artificiality  and  hostility  which  gave  her  such 
a  cruel  ache  in  her  heart. 

Micheline  offered  to  accompany  her  part  of 
the  way  home,  but  in  reality  the  girl  longed  to 
be  alone,  and  she  knew  that  Micheline  would 
understand. 

Nicolette  wandered  slowly  down  the  dusty 
road.  She  had  purposely  avoided  the  pretty 
descent  down  the  terraced  gradients  through 
the  woods;  somehow  she  felt  as  if  they  too 
must  be  changed,  as  if  the  malignant  fairy  had 
also  waved  a  cruel  wand  over  the  shady  olive 
trees,  and  the  carob  to  which  captive  maidens, 
long  since  passed  away,  were  wont  to  be  teth- 
ered whilst  gallant  knights,  slew  impossible 
dragons  and  tinged  the  grass  with  the  mon- 
ster's blood.  Surely,  surely,  all  that  had 
changed  too!  Perhaps  it  had  never  been. 
Perhaps  childhood  had  been  a  dream  and  the 
carob  tree  was  as  much  a  legend  as  the  dragons 
and  the  fiery  chargers  of  old.  Nicolette  had 
a  big  heart-ache,  because  she  was  young  and 
because  life  had  revealed  itself  to  her  whilst  she 


162  NICOLETTE 

was  still  a  child,  showed  her  all  the  beauty,  the 
joy,  the  happiness  that  it  could  bestow  if  it 
would;  it  had  drawn  aside  the  curtain  which 
separated  earth  from  heaven,  and  then  closed 
them  again  leaving  her  on  the  wrong  side, 
all  alone,  shivering,  pining,  longing,  not 
understanding  why  God  could  be  so  cruel  when 
the  sky  was  so  blue,  His  world  so  fair,  and  she, 
Nicolette,  possessed  of  an  infinite  capacity  for 
love. 

Whilst  she  had  sat  at  the  spinet  and  sung 
"lou  Roussignou"  she  had  gazed  abstractedly 
through  the  open  window  before  her,  and  seen 
that  exquisite  being,  all  lace  and  ribbons  and 
loveliness,  wielding  little  poison-darts  that  she 
flung  at  Bertrand,  hurting  him  horribly  in 
his  pride,  in  his  love  of  the  old  home :  and  Nico- 
lette, whose  pretty  head  held  a  fair  amount 
of  shrewd  common  sense,  marvelled  what  de- 
gree of  happiness  the  future  held  for  those 
two,  who  were  so  obviously  unsuited  to  one 
another.  Rixende  de  Peyron-Bompar,  petu- 
lant, spoilt,  pleasure-loving,  and  Tan-tan  the 
slayer  of  dragons,  the  intrepid  Paul  of  the 
Paul  et  Virginie  days  on  the  desert  island. 
Rixende,  the  butterfly  Queen  of  a  Paris  salon, 
and  Bertrand,  Comte  de  Ventadour,  the  de- 
scendant of  troubadours,  the  idealist,  the 


TWILIGHT  163 

dreamer,  the  weak  vessel  filled  to  the  brim 
with  all  that  was  most  lovable,  most  reprehen- 
sible, most  sensitive,  most  certainly  doomed  to 
suffer. 

If  only  she  thought  that  he  would  be  happy, 
Nicolette  felt  that  she  could  go  about  with  a 
lighter  heart.  She  had  a  happy  home:  a 
father  who  idolised  her:  she  loved  this  land 
where  she  was  born,  the  old  mas,  the  climbing 
rose,  the  vine  arbour,  the  dark  cypresses  that 
stood  sentinel  beside  the  outbuildings  of  the 
mas.  In  time,  perhaps,  loving  these  things, 
she  would  forget  that  other,  that  greater  love, 
that  immeasurably  greater  love  that  now 
threatened  to  break  her  heart. 

How  beautiful  the  world  was !  and  how  beau- 
tiful was  Provence!  the  trees,  the  woods,  Lu- 
beron  and  its  frowning  crags,  the  orange  trees 
that  sent  their  intoxicating  odour  through  the 
air.  Already  the  sun  had  hidden  his  splen- 
dour behind  Luberon,  and  had  lit  that  big 
crimson  fire  behind  the  mountain  tops  that  had 
seemed  the  end  of  the  world  to  Nicolette  in  the 
days  of  old.  The  silence  of  evening  had  fallen 
on  these  woods  where  bird-song  was  always 
scarce.  Nicolette  walked  very  slowly :  she  felt 
tired  to-night,  and  she  never  liked  a  road  when 
terraced  gradients  through  rows  of  olive  trees 


164  NICOLETTE 

were  so  much  more  inviting.  The  road  was  a 
very  much  longer  way  to  the  mas  than  the 
woods.  Nicolette  paused,  debating  what  she 
should  do.  The  crimson  fire  behind  Luberon 
had  paled  to  rose  and  then  to  lemon-gold,  and 
to  right  and  left  the  sky  was  of  a  pale  turquoise 
tint,  with  tiny  clouds  lingering  above  the  stony 
peaks  of  Luberon,  tiny,  fluffy  grey  clouds 
edged  with  madder  that  slowly  paled. 

The  short  twilight  spread  its  grey  mantle 
over  the  valley  and  the  mountain-side ;  the  tiny 
clouds  were  now  of  a  uniform  grey :  grey  were 
the  crags  and  the  boulders,  the  tree-tops  and 
the  roof  of  the  distant  mas.  Only  the  dark 
cypresses  stood  out  like  long,  inky  blotches 
against  that  translucent  grey.  And  from  the 
valley  there  rose  that  intoxicating  fragrance 
of  the  blossom-laden  orange  trees.  Way  down 
on  the  road  below  a  cart  rattled  by,  the  harness 
jingling,  the  axles  groaning,  the  driver,  with  a 
maiden  beside  him,  singing  a  song  of  Provence. 
For  a  few  minutes  these  sounds  filled  the  air 
with  their  insistence  on  life,  movement,  toil, 
their  testimony  to  the  wheels  of  destiny  that 
never  cease  to  grind.  Then  all  was  still  again, 
and  the  short  twilight  faded  into  evening. 

And  as  Nicolette  deliberately  turned  from 
the  road  into  the  wood,  a  nightingale  began  to 


TWILIGHT  165 

sing.  The  soft  little  trills  went  rolling  and 
echoing  through  the  woods  like  a  call  from 
heaven  itself  to  partake  of  the  joy,  the  beauty, 
the  fulness  of  the  earth  and  all  its  loveliness. 
And  suddenly,  as  Nicolette  worked  her  way 
down  the  terraced  gradients,  she  spied,  stand- 
ing upon  a  grass-covered  knoll,  two  forms  in- 
terlaced: Bert  rand  had  his  arms  around  Rix- 
ende,  his  face  was  buried  in  the  wealth  of  her 
golden  curls,  and  she  lay  quite  passive,  upon 
his  breast. 

Nicolette  dared  not  move,  for  fear  she  should 
be  seen,  for  fear,  too,  that  she  should  break 
upon  this,  surely  the  happiest  hour  in  Tan- 
tan's  life.  They  paid  no  heed  of  what  went 
on  around  them:  Bertrand  held  his  beloved  in 
his  arms  with  an  embrace  that  was  both  pas- 
sionate and  yearning,  whilst  overhead  the 
nightingale  trilled  its  sweet,  sad  melody. 
Xicolette  stood  quite  still,  dry-eyed  and  numb. 
Awhile  ago  she  had  been  sure  that  if  only  she 
could  think  that  Tan-tan  was  happy,  she 
could  go  through  life  with  a  lighter  heart. 
Well!  she  had  her  wish!  there  was  happiness, 
absolute,  radiant  happiness  expressed  in  that 
embrace.  Tan-tan  was  happy,  and  his  loved 
one  lay  passive  in  his  arms,  whilst  the  song  of 
the  nightingale  spoke  unto  his  soul  promises  of 


166  NICOLETTE 

greater  happiness  still.  And  Nicolette  closed 
her  eyes,  because  the  picture  before  her  seemed 
to  sear  her  very  heart-strings  and  wrench  them 
out  of  her  breast.  She  stuffed  her  handker- 
chief into  her  mouth,  because  a  desperate  cry 
of  pain  had  risen  to  her  throat.  Then,  turning 
suddenly,  she  ran  and  ran  down  the  slope, 
away,  away  as  far  away  as  she  could  from  that 
haunting  picture  of  Tan-tan  and  his  happiness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHRISTMAS   EVE 

IT  was  a  very  rare  thing  indeed  for  discord 
to  hold  sway  at  the  mas.  Perfect  har- 
mony reigned  habitually  between  Jaume  Dey- 
dier,  his  daughter  and  the  old  servant  who  had 
loved  and  cared  for  her  ever  since  Nicolette 
had  been  a  tiny  baby,  laid  in  Margai's  loving 
arms  by  the  hands  of  the  dying  mother. 

Jaume  Deydier  was,  of  course,  master  in  his 
own  house.  In  Provence,  old  traditions  still 
prevail,  and  the  principles  of  independence 
and  equality  bred  by  the  Revolution  had  never 
penetrated  into  these  mountain  fastnesses, 
where  primitive  and  patriarchal  modes  of  life 
gave  all  the  happiness  and  content  that  the 
women  of  the  old  country  desired.  That 
Nicolette  had  been  indulged  and  petted  both 
by  her  father  and  her  old  nurse,  was  only  nat- 
ural. The  child  was  pretty,  loving,  lovable 
and  motherless;  the  latter  being  the  greater 
claim  on  her  father's  indulgence.  As  for  Mar- 
ga'i,  she  was  Nicolette's  slave,  even  though  she 

167 


168  NICOLETTE 

grumbled  and  scolded  and  imagined  that  she 
ruled  the  household  and  ordered  the  servants 
about  at  the  mas,  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
as  old  Madame  ordered  hers  over  at  the  cha- 
teau. 

From  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  on  the 
whole  it  was  Nicolette  who  usually  had  her  way 
in  the  house.  But  for  the  last  two  days  she 
had  been  going  about  with  a  listless,  dispirited 
air,  whilst  Jaume  Deydier  did  nothing  but 
frown,  and  Margai's  mutterings  were  as  in- 
cessant as  they  were  for  the  most  part  unin- 
telligible. 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  Mossou  Dey- 
dier," she  said  more  than  once  to  her  master, 
"one  would  think  you  wanted  to  be  rid  of  the 
child." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Margai,"  was  Deydier's 
tart  response.  But  Margai  was  not  to  be 
silenced  quite  so  readily.  She  had  been  fifty 
years  in  the  service  of  the  Deydiers,  and  had— 
as  she  oft  and  picturesquely  put  it — turned 
down  Mossou  Jaume's  breeches  many  a  time 
when  he  sneaked  into  her  larder  and  stole  the 
jam  she  had  just  boiled,  or  the  honey  she  had 
recently  gathered  from  the  hives.  Oh,  no !  she 
was  not  going  to  be  silenced — not  like  that. 

"If  the  child  loved  him,"  she  went  on  argu- 


CHRIST  MAS    EVE  169 

ing,  "I  would  not  say  another  word.  But  she 
has  told  you  once  and  for  all  that  she  does  not 
care  for  young  B amadou,  and  does  not  wish 
to  marry." 

"Oh!"  Jaume  Deydier  rejoined  with  a  shrug 
of  his  wide  shoulders,  "girls  always  say  that  at 
first.  She  is  not  in  love  with  any  one  else,  I 
suppose!" 

"God  forbid!"  Margai  exclaimed,  so  hastily 
that  the  wooden  spoon  wherewith  she  had  been 
stirring  the  soup  a  moment  ago  fell  out  of  her 
hand  with  a  clatter. 

"There,  now!"  she  said  tartly,  "you  quite 
upset  me  with  your  silly  talk.  Nicolette  in 
love?  With  whom,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

"Well  then,"  Deydier  retorted. 

"Well  then  what?" 

"Why  should  she  refuse  Ameyric?  He 
loves  her.  He  would  suit  me  perfectly  as  a 
son-in-law.  What  has  the  child  got  against 
him?" 

"But  can't  you  wait,  Mossou  Jaume?"  Mar- 
gai would  argue.  "Can't  you  wait?  Why,  the 
child  is  not  yet  nineteen." 

"My  wife  was  seventeen  when  I  married 
her,"  Deydier  retorted.  "And  I  would  like  to 
see  Nicolette  tokened  before  the  fetes.  I  was 
affianced  to  my  wife  two  days  before  Noel,  we 


170  NICOLETTE 

had  the  gros  soupe  at  her  parents'  house  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  walked  together  to  mid- 
night Mass." 

"And  two  years  later  she  was  in  her  coffin," 
Margai  muttered. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  Thou'rt 
a  fool,  Margai."  Whereupon  Margai,  feeling 
that  in  truth  her  last  remark  had  been  neither 
logical  nor  kind,  reverted  to  her  original  argu- 
ment :  "One  would  think  you  wanted  to  be  rid 
of  the  child,  Mossou  Jaume." 

And  the  whole  matter  would  be  gone 
through  all  over  again  from  the  beginning, 
and  Jaume  Deydier  would  lose  his  temper  and 
say  harsh  things  which  he  regretted  as  soon 
as  they  had  crossed  his  lips,  and  Margai  would 
continue  to  argue  and  to  exasperate  him,  until, 
luckily,  Nicolette  would  come  into  the  room 
and  perch  on  her  father's  knee,  and  smother 
further  arguments  by  ruffling  up  his  hair,  or 
putting  his  necktie  straight,  or  merely  throw- 
ing her  arms  around  his  neck. 

This  all  occurred  two  days  before  Christmas. 
There  had  been  a  fall  of  snow  way  up  in  the 
mountains,  and  Luberon  wore  a  white  cap  upon 
his  crest.  The  mistral  had  come  once  or  twice 
tearing  down  the  valley,  and  in  the  living- 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  171 

rooms  at  the  mas  huge  fires  of  olive  and  euca- 
lyptus burned  in  the  hearths.  Margai  had 
been  very  busy  preparing  the  food  for  the 
gros  soupe,  the  traditional  banquet  of  Christ- 
mas Eve  in  old  Provence,  and  which  Jaume 
Deydier  offered  every  year  to  forty  of  his  chief 
employes.  Nicolette  now  was  also  versed  in 
the  baking  and  roasting  of  the  calenos,  the 
fruits  and  cakes  which  would  be  distributed 
to  all  the  men  employed  at  the  farm  and  to 
their  families:  and  even  Margai  was  forced 
to  admit  that  the  Poumpo  taillado — the  na- 
tional cake,  baked  with  sugar  and  oil — was 
never  so  good  as  when  Nicolette  mixed  it  her- 
self. 

Of  Ameyric  Barnadou  there  was  less  and 
less  talk  as  the  festival  drew  nigh.  Margai 
and  Nicolette  were  too  busy  to  argue,  and 
Jaume  Deydier  sat  by  his  fireside  in  somewhat 
surly  silence.  He  could  not  understand  his 
own  daughter.  Ah  fa!  what  did  the  child 
want?  What  had  she  to  say  against  young 
Barnadou?  Every  girl  had  to  marry  some 
time,  then  why  not  Nicolette? 

But  he  said  nothing  more  for  a  day  or  two. 
His  pet  scheme  that  the  fianfailles  should  be 
celebrated  on  Christmas  Eve  had  been  knocked 
on  the  head  by  Nicolette's  obstinacy,  but 


172  NICOLETTE 

Jaume  hoped  a  great  deal  from  the  banquet, 
the  calignaou,  and  above  all,  from  the  mid- 
night Mass.  Nicolette  was  very  gentle  and 
very  sentimental,  and  Ameyric  so  very  pas- 
sionately in  love.  The  boy  would  be  a  fool 
if  he  could  not  make  the  festivals,  the  proces- 
sion, the  flowers,  the  candles,  the  incense  to  be 
his  helpmates  in  his  wooing. 

On  Christmas  Eve  Jaume  Deydier's  guests 
were  assembled  in  the  hall  where  the  banquet 
was  also  laid :  the  more  important  overseers 
and  workpeople  of  his  olive  oil  and  orange- 
flower  water  factories  were  there,  some  with 
their  wives  and  children. 

Jaume  Deydier,  in  the  beautiful  bottle-green 
cloth  coat  which  he  had  worn  at  his  wedding, 
and  which  he  wore  once  every  year  for  the 
Christmas  festival,  his  grey  hair  and  his  whis- 
kers carefully  brushed,  his  best  paste  buckles 
on  his  shoes,  shook  every  one  cordially  by  the 
hand;  beside  him  Nicolette,  in  silk  kirtle  and 
lace  fichu,  smiled  and  chatted,  proud  to  be  the 
chatelaine  of  this  beautiful  home,  the  queen 
of  this  little  kingdom  amongst  the  mountains, 
the  beneficent  fairy  to  whom  the  whole  coun- 
try-side looked  if  help  or  comfort  or  material 
assistance  was  required.  Around  her  pressed 
the  men  and  the  women  and  the  children  who 


C  H  R  I  S  T  M  A  S    E  V  E  173 

had  come  to  the  feast.  There  was  old  Tiberge, 
the  doyen  of  the  staff  over  at  Pertuis,  whose 
age  had  ceased  to  be  recorded,  it  had  become 
fabulous:  there  was  Thibaut,  the  chief  over- 
seer, with  his  young  wife  who  had  her  youngest 
born  by  the  hand.  There  was  Zacharie,  the 
chief  clerk,  who  was  tokened  to  Violante,  the 
daughter  of  Laugier  the  cashier.  They  were 
all  a  big  family  together:  had  seen  one  an- 
other grow  up,  marry,  have  children,  and  their 
children  had  known  one  another  from  their 
cradles.  Jaume  Deydier  amongst  them  was 
like  the  head  of  the  family,  and  no  seigneur 
over  at  the  chateau  had  ever  been  so  conscious 
of  his  own  dignity.  As  for  Nicolette,  she  was 
just  the  little  fairy  whom  they  had  seen  grow- 
ing from  a  lovely  child  into  an  exquisite 
woman,  their  Nicolette,  of  whom  every  girl  was 
proud,  and  with  whom  every  lad  was  in  love. 

The  noise  in  the  hall  soon  became  deafening. 
They  are  neither  a  cold  nor  a  reserved  race, 
these  warm-hearted  children  of  sunny  Prov- 
ence. They  carry  their  hearts  on  their  sleeves : 
they  talk  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  and  when 
they  laugh  they  shake  the  old  rafters  of  their 
mountain  homes  with  the  noise.  And  Christ- 
mas Eve  was  the  day  of  all  days.  They  all 
loved  the  gifts  of  the  catenas,  the  dried  fruits 


174  NICOLETTE 

and  cakes  which  the  patron  distributed  with  a 
lavish  hand,  and  which  they  took  home  to  their 
bairns  or  to  those  less  fortunate  members  of 
their  families  who  were  not  partakers  of  Dey- 
dier's  hospitality.  But  they  adored  the 
Poumpo  taillado,  the  sweet,  oily  cake  that  no 
one  baked  better  than  demoiselle  Nicolette. 
And  the  banquet  would  begin  with  bouilla- 
baisse which  was  concocted  by  Margai  from 
an  old  recipe  that  came  direct  from  Marseilles, 
and  there  would  be  turkeys  and  geese  from 
Deydier's  splendid  farmyard,  and  salads  and 
artichokes  served  with  marrow  fat.  Already 
the  men  were  smacking  their  lips;  manners 
not  being  over-refined  in  Provence,  where  Na- 
ture alone  dictates  how  a  man  shall  behave, 
without  reference  to  what  his  neighbours  might 
think.  There  was  a  cheery  fire,  too,  in  the 
monumental  hearth,  and  the  shutters  behind 
the  windows  being  hermetically  closed,  the 
atmosphere  presently  became  steaming  and 
heady  with  the  smell  of  good  food  and  the 
aroma  from  the  huge,  long-necked  bottles  of 
good  Roussillon  wine. 

But  every  one  there  knew  that,  before  they 
could  sit  down  to  table,  the  solemn  rite  of  the 
Calignaou  must  be  gone  through.  As  soon  as 
the  huge  clock  that  stood  upon  the  mantelshelf 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  175 

had  finished  striking  six,  old  Tiberge,  whose 
first  birthday  was  lost  in  the  nebulas  of  time, 
stepped  out  from  the  little  group  that  encircled 
him,  and  took  tiny  Savinien,  the  four-year-old 
son  of  the  chief  overseer,  by  the  hand :  Decem- 
ber leading  January,  Winter  coupled  with 
Spring;  Jaume  Deydier  put  a  full  bumper  of 
red  wine  in  the  little  fellow's  podgy  hand :  and 
together  these  two,  the  aged  and  the  youngster, 
toddled  with  uncertain  steps  out  of  the  room, 
followed  by  the  entire  party.  They  made  their 
way  to  the  entrance  door  of  the  house,  on  the 
threshold  of  wrhich  a  huge  log  of  olive  wood 
had  in  the  meanwhile  been  placed.  Guided 
by  his  mother,  little  Savinien  now  poured  some 
of  the  wine  over  the  log,  whilst,  prompted  by 
Nicolette,  his  baby  lips  lisped  the  traditional 
words : 

"  Alegre,  Diou  nous  alegre 
Cachofue  ven,  tout  ben  ven 
Diou  nous  fague  la  graci  de  voir  1'an  qu6  ven 
Se  sian  pas  mai,  siguen  pas  men." 

After  which  the  bumper  of  wine  was  handed 
round  and  every  one  drank.  Still  guided  by 
his  mother,  the  child  then  took  hold  of  one  end 

*  Let  us  be  merry !  God  make  us  merry !  Hidden  fires 
come,  all  good  things  come!  May  God  give  us  grace  to  see 
the  coming  year.  If  there  be  not  more  of  us,  let  there  not  be 
fewer. 


176  NICOLETTE 

of  the  Proven9al  Yule  log,  and  the  old  man 
of  the  other,  and  together  they  marched  back 
to  the  dining-hall  and  solemnly  deposited  the 
log  in  the  hearth,  where  it  promptly  began 
to  blaze. 

Thus  by  this  quaint  old  custom  did  they 
celebrate  the  near  advent  of  the  coming  year. 
The  old  man  and  the  child,  each  a  symbol — 
Tiberge  of  the  past,  little  Savinien  of  the  fu- 
ture, the  fire  of  the  Yule  log  the  warmth  of 
the  sun.  Every  one  clapped  their  hands,  the 
noise  became  deafening,  and  Jaume  Deydier's 
stentorian  voice,  crying:  "A  table,  les  amis!" 
could  scarce  be  heard  above  the  din.  After 
that  they  all  sat  at  the  table  and  the  business 
of  the  banquet  began. 

Nicolette  alone  was  silent,  smiling,  out- 
wardly as  merry  as  any  of  them;  she  sat  at 
the  head  of  her  father's  table,  and  went  about 
her  duties  as  mistress  of  the  house  with  that 
strange  sense  of  unreality  that  had  haunted 
her  this  past  year  still  weighing  on  her  heart. 

In  the  years  of  her  childhood — the  years 
that  were  gone — Tan-tan  and  Micheline  were 
always  allowed  to  come  and  spend  Christmas 
Eve  at  the  mas.  Even  grandmama,  dour, 
haughty  grandmama,  realised  the  necessity  of 
allowing  children  to  be  gay  and  happy  on 


CHRIST  MAS    EVE  177 

what  is  essentially  the  children's  festival.  So 
Tan-tan  and  Micheline  used  to  come,  and  for 
several  years  it  was  Tan-tan  who  used  to  pour 
the  wine  over  the  log,  and  he  was  so  proud 
because  he  knew  the  prescribed  ditty  by  heart, 
and  never  had  to  be  prompted.  He  spoke  them 
with  such  an  air,  that  she,  Nicolette,  who  was 
little  more  than  a  baby  then,  would  gaze  on 
him  wide-eyed  with  admiration.  And  one  year 
there  had  been  a  great  commotion,  because  old 
Metastase,  who  was  said  to  be  one  hundred 
years  old,  and  whose  hands  trembled  like  the 
leaves  of  the  old  aspen  tree  down  by  the  Leze, 
had  dropped  the  log  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  and  the  women  had  screamed,  and 
even  the  men  were  scared,  as  it  was  supposed 
to  be  an  evil  omen :  but  Tan-tan  was  not  afraid. 
He  just  stood  there,  and  as  calm  as  a  young 
god  commanded  Metastase  to  pick  up  the  log 
again,  and  when  it  was  at  last  safely  deposited 
upon  the  hearth,  he  had  glanced  round  at  the 
assembled  company  and  remarked  coolly :  "It 
is  not  more  difficult  than  that!"  whereupon 
every  one  had  laughed,  and  the  incident  was 
forgotten. 

Then  another  time 

But  what  was  the  good  of  thinking  about 
all  that?  They  were  gone,  those  dear,  good 


178  NICOLETTE 

times.  Tan-tan  was  no  more.  He  was  M.  le 
Comte  de  Ventadour,  affianced  to  a  beautiful 
girl  whom  he  loved  so  passionately,  that  at 
even  when  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  the  night- 
ingale came  out  of  his  retreat  amidst  the 
branches  of  mimosa  trees  and  sang  a  love  song 
as  an  accompaniment  to  the  murmur  of  her 
kisses. 

Soon  after  eleven  o'clock  the  whole  party 
set  out  to  walk  to  Manosque  for  the  midnight 
Mass  at  the  little  church  there.  Laughing, 
joking,  singing,  the  merry  troup  wound  its 
way  along  the  road  that  leads  up  to  the  vil- 
lage perched  upon  the  mountain-side,  girls  and 
boys  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  older 
men  and  women  soberly  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Overhead  the  canopy  of  the  sky  of  a  luminous 
indigo  was  studded  with  stars,  and  way  away 
in  the  east  the  waning  moon,  cool  and  mys- 
terious, shed  its  honey-coloured  lustre  over 
mountain  peaks  and  valley,  picked  out  the 
winding  road  with  its  fairy-light,  till  it  gleamed 
lemon-golden  like  a  ribbon  against  the  leafy 
slopes,  and  threw  fantastic  shadows  in  the  way 
of  the  lively  throng.  Some  of  them  sang  as 
they  went  along,  for  your  Provencal  has  the 
temperament  of  the  South  in  its  highest  degree, 


CHRIST  MAS   EVE  179 

and  when  he  is  happy  he  bursts  into  song.  And 
to-night  the  pale  moon  was  golden,  the  blue 
of  the  sky  like  a  sheet  of  sapphire  and  myriads 
of  stars  proclaimed  the  reign  of  beauty  and 
of  poesy:  the  night  air  was  mild,  with  just  a 
touch  in  it  of  snow-cooled  breeze  that  came 
from  over  snow-capped  Luberon:  it  was 
heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  pines  and  eucalyp- 
tus and  rosemary  which  goes  to  the  head  like 
wine.  So  men  and  maids,  as  they  walked,  held 
one  another  close,  and  their  lips  met  in  the 
pauses  of  their  song. 

But  Nicollette  walked  with  her  girl-friends, 
those  who  were  not  yet  tokened.  She  was 
as  merry  as  any  of  them,  she  chatted  and  she 
laughed,  but  she  did  not  join  in  the  song.  To- 
night of  all  nights  was  one  of  remembrance  of 
past  festivals  when  she  was  a  baby  and  her 
father  carried  her  to  midnight  Mass,  with  Tan- 
tan  trotting  manfully  by  his  side:  sometimes 
it  would  be  very  cold,  the  mistral  would  be 
blowing  across  the  valley  and  Margai  would 
wind  a  thick  red  scarf  around  her  head  and 
throat.  And  once,  only  once — it  snowed,  and 
Tan-tan  would  stop  at  the  road  side  and  gather 
up  the  snow  and  throw  it  at  the  passers-by. 

Memory  was  insistent.  Nicolette  would 
have  liked  to  smother  it  in  thoughts  of  the  pres- 


180  NICOLETTE 

ent,  in  vague  hopes  of  the  future,  but  every 
turn  of  the  road,  every  tree,  and  every  boulder, 
even  the  shadows  that  lengthened  and  dimin- 
ished at  her  feet  as  she  walked,  were  arrayed 
against  forgetfulness. 

The  little  church  at  Manosque  (crude  in 
architecture,  tawdry  in  decoration,  ugly  if 
measured  by  the  canons  of  art  and  good  taste, 
is  never  really  unlovely.  On  days  of  great 
festivals  it  was  even  beautiful,  filled  as  it  was 
to  overflowing  with  picturesque  people,  whose 
loving  hands  had  helped  to  adorn  the  sacred 
edifice  with  all  that  nature  yielded  for  the  pur- 
pose: branches  of  grey-leaved  eucalyptus  and 
tender  twigs  of  lavender,  great  leafy  masses 
of  stiff  carob  and  feathery  mimosa  and  delicate 
branches  of  red  or  saffron  flowered  grevillea, 
all  tied  with  gaudy  ribbons  around  the  white- 
washed pillars  or  nestling  in  huge,  untidy  bou- 
quets around  the  painted  effigy  of  the  Virgin. 
In  one  corner  of  the  little  church,  the  tradi- 
tional creche  had  been  erected:  the  manger 
against  a  background  of  leaves  and  stones,  with 
the  figures  of  Mary,  and  the  Sacred  Infant, 
of  St.  Joseph  and  the  Kings.  All  very  naive 
and  very  crude,  but  tender  and  lovable,  and 


CHRIST  MAS    EVE  181 

romantic  as  are  the  people  of  this  land  of 
sunshine  and  poesy. 

For  midnight  Mass,  the  little  building  was 
certainly  too  small  to  hold  all  the  worshippers, 
so  they  overflowed  into  the  porch,  the  organ- 
loft  and  the  vestry;  and  those  who  found  no 
place  inside,  remained  standing  in  the  road 
listening  to  the  singing  and  the  bells.  The 
women  in  their  gaudy  shawls,  orange,  green, 
blue,  magenta,  looked  like  a  parterre  of  riot- 
ous coloured  flowers  in  the  body  of  the  church, 
while  the  men  in  their  best  clothes  were 
squeezed  against  the  walls  or  jammed  into  the 
corners,  taking  up  as  little  of  the  room  as 
they  could. 

Nicolette  knelt  beside  her  father.  On  en- 
tering the  church  she  had  seen  Ameyric,  who 
obviously  had  been  in  wait  for  her  and  offered 
her  the  Holy  water  as  she  entered.  His  eyes 
had  devoured  her,  and  despite  his  sense  of  rev- 
erence and  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  his 
hand  had  closed  over  her  fingers  when  she 
took  the  Holy  water  from  him.  When  Father 
Fournier  began  saying  Mass,  Nicolette  bowed 
her  head  between  her  hands  and  prayed  with 
all  her  heart  and  soul  that  Ameyric  might  find 
another  girl  who  would  be  worthy  of  him  and 
return  his  love.  She  prayed  too,  and  prayed 


182  NICOLETTE 

earnestly  that  Bertrand  might  continue  to  be 
happy  with  his  beloved  and  that  he  should  never 
know  a  moment's  disappointment  or  repining. 
Nicolette  had  been  taught  by  Father  Fournier 
that  it  was  part  of  a  Christian  girl's  duty  to 
love  every  one,  even  her  enemies,  and  to  pray 
for  them  earnestly,  for  le  Bon  Dieu  would 
surely  know  if  prayers  were  not  sincere.  So 
Nicolette  forced  herself  to  think  kindly  of 
Rixende,  to  remember  her  only  as  she  had  last 
seen  her  that  evening  in  May,  when  she  lay 
quite  placid  in  Bertrand's  arms,  with  her  head 
upon  his  breast  and  with  the  nightingale  trill- 
ing away  for  dear  life  over  her  head. 

So  persistently  did  Nicolette  think  of  this 
picture  that  she  succeeded  in  persuading  her- 
self that  the  thought  made  her  happy,  and  then 
she  realised  that  her  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Father  Fournier  preached  a  sermon  all 
about  humility  and  obedience  and  the  example 
set  by  the  Divine  Master,  and  Nicolette  won- 
dered if  it  was  not  perhaps  her  duty  to  do  as 
her  father  wished  and  to  marry  Ameyric  Bar- 
nadou?  Oh!  it  was  difficult,  very  difficult, 
and  Nicolette  thought  how  much  more  simple 
it  would  be  if  le  Bon  Dieu  was  in  the  habit 
of  telling  people  exactly  what  He  wished  them 
to  do.  The  feeling  of  unreality  once  more 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  183 

came  over  her.  She  sat  with  eyes  closed  while 
Father  Fournier  went  on  talking,  talking,  and 
the  air  grew  hotter,  more  heavy  every  moment 
with  the  fumes  of  the  incense,  the  burning  can- 
dles, the  agitated  breath  of  hundreds  of  en- 
tranced village  folk.  The  noise,  the  smell,  the 
rising  clouds  of  incense  all  became  blurred 
to  her  eyes,  her  ears,  her  nostrils :  only  the  past 
remained  quite  real,  as  she  had  lived  it  before 
the  awful,  awful  day  when  Tan-tan  went  out 
of  her  life,  the  past  with  its  dragons,  and  dis- 
tressful maidens,  and  woods  redolent  with  rose- 
mary and  groves  of  citron-blossoms,  the  past 
as  she  had  lived  it  with  Tan-tan  and  Micheline, 
those  happy  Christmases  of  old. 

Tan-tan,  who  was  a  wilful,  fidgety  boy,  was 
always  good  when  he  came  to  midnight  Mass. 
Nicolette  with  eyes  closed  and  Father  Four- 
nier's  voice  droning  in  her  ears,  could  see  him 
now  sitting  quite,  quite  still  with  Micheline  on 
one  side  of  him,  and  her,  Nicolette,  on  the 
other.  And  they,  the  three  children,  sat  agape 
while  the  offertory  procession  wound  its  way 
through  the  crowded  church.  She  felt  that 
she  was  a  baby  again,  and  that  her  tiny  feet 
could  not  touch  the  ground,  and  her  wee  hands 
kept  reaching  out  to  touch  Tan-tan's  sleeve 
or  his  knee.  Ah,  that  beautiful,  that  exciting 


184  NICOLETTE 

procession!  The  children  craned  their  little 
necks  to  see  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  and 
Jaume  Deydier  would  take  his  little  girl  in 
his  arms  and  set  her  to  stand  upon  his  knee,  so 
that  she  might  see  everything;  Micheline  would 
stand  up  with  Margai's  arm  around  her  to  keep 
her  steady,  but  Tan-tan's  pride  would  have  a 
long  struggle  with  his  curiosity.  He  would  re- 
main seated  just  like  a  grown  man  and  pre- 
tend that  he  could  see  quite  well ;  and  this  pre- 
tence he  would  keep  up  for  a  long  while,  al- 
though Nicolette  would  exclaim  from  time  to 
time  in  that  loud  hoarse  whisper  peculiar  to 
children : 

"Tan-tan,  stand  on  your  chair!  It  is 
lovely!" 

Then  at  last  Tan-tan  would  give  in  and  stand 
up  on  his  chair,  after  which  Nicolette  felt  that 
she  could  set  to  and  enjoy  the  procession  too. 
First  the  band  of  musicians  with  beribboned 
tambours,  bagpipes  and  clarinets :  then  a  group 
of  young  men,  goatherds  from  Luberon  or 
Vaucluse,  carrying  huge  baskets  of  fruits  and 
live  pigeons:  after  which  a  miniature  cart  en- 
tirely covered  with  leafy  branches  of  olive  and 
cypress  with  lighted  candles  set  all  along  its 
sides,  and  drawn  by  a  lamb,  whose  snow-white 
fleece  was  adorned  with  tiny  bunches  of  col- 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  185 

oured  ribbons ;  behind  this  cart  a  group  of  girls 
wearing  the  Garbalin,  a  tall  conical  head-dress 
adorned  with  tiny  russet  apples  and  miniature 
oranges :  finally  a  band  of  singers,  singing  the 
Christmas  hymns. 

The  children  would  get  so  excited  at  sight  of 
the  lamb  and  the  little  cart,  that  their  elders 
had  much  ado  to  keep  them  from  clapping  their 
hands  or  shouting  with  glee,  which  would  have 
been  most  unseemly  in  the  sacred  building. 

Then,  when  the  procession  was  over,  they 
would  scramble  back  into  their  seats  and  endure 
the  rest  of  the  Mass  as  best  they  could.  Nico- 
lette  saw  it  all  through  the  smoke  of  incense, 
the  flaring  candles  and  the  thick,  heady  air. 
That  was  reality!  not  the  dreary  present  with 
Tan-tan  gone  out  of  Nicolette's  life,  and  a 
beautiful  stranger  with  golden  hair  and  gen- 
tian-blue eyes  shouting  petulantly  at  him  or 
feigning  love  \vhich  she  was  too  selfish  to  feel. 
That  surely  could  not  be  reality :  the  Bon  Dieu 
was  too  good  to  treat  Tan-tan  so. 

And  as  if  to  make  the  past  more  real  still, 
the  sound  of  fife  and  bagpipe  and  tambour 
struck  suddenly  upon  Nicolette's  ear.  She 
looked  up  and  there  was  the  procession  just 
starting  to  go  round  the  church,  the  baskets 
with  the  live  pigeons,  the  little  cart,  the  white 


186  NICOLETTE 

lamb  with  its  fleece  all  tied  up  with  ribbons: 
the  same  procession  which  Nicolette  had 
watched  from  the  point  of  vantage  of  her 
father's  knee  sixteen  years  ago,  and  had 
watched  every  year  since — at  first  by  Tan- 
tan's  side,  then  with  him  gone,  and  the  whole 
world  a  dreary  blank  to  her. 

Was  this  then  what  life  really  meant?  The 
same  things  over  and  over  again,  year  after 
year,  till  one  grew  old,  till  one  grew  not  to 
care?  Did  life  mean  loneliness  and  watching 
the  happiness  of  others,  while  one's  own  heart 
was  so  full  that  it  nearly  broke?  Then,  if  that 
was  the  case,  why  not  do  as  father  wished  and 
marry  Ameyric? 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TURNING  POINT 

THE  first  inkling  that  Nicolette  had  of  the 
happenings  at  the  chateau  was  on  Christ- 
mas Day  itself  after  High  Mass.  When  she 
came  out  of  church  with  her  father  some  of 
the  people  had  already  got  hold  of  the  news: 
those  who  had  arrived  late  had  heard  of  it  as 
they  came  along,  and  with  that  agitation  which 
comes  into  even,  monotonous  lives  whenever 
the  unexpected  occurs,  groups  of  village  folk 
stood  about  outside  the  church,  and  instead 
of  the  usual  chaff  and  banter,  every  one  talked 
only  of  the  one  thing:  the  events  at  the  cha- 
teau. 

''What?    You  have  not  heard?" 

"No,  what  is  it?" 

"A  death  in  the  family." 

"Holy  Virgin,  who?" 

"The  old  Comtesse?    She  is  very  oldl" 

"The  Comtesse  Marcelle?  She  is  always 
sick!" 

"No  one  knows." 

187 


188  NICOLETTE 

Nicolette,  vaguely  frightened,  questioned 
those  who  seemed  to  know  best.  Mais,  voila! 
no  one  knew  anything  definite,  although  one 
or  two  averred  that  they  had  seen  a  man  on 
horseback  go  up  to  the  chateau,  soon  after 
dawn.  This  detail  did  not  calm  Nicolette's 
fears.  On  the  contrary.  If  the  sad  news  had 
come  from  a  distance  .  .  .  from  Paris,  for  ex- 
ample .  .  .  Oh!  it  was  unthinkable!  But  al- 
ready she  had  made  up  her  mind.  After  mid- 
day dinner  she  would  go  and  see  Micheline. 
It  was  but  a  short  walk  to  the  chateau,  and 
surely  father  could  spare  her  for  an  hour  or 
two. 

Jaume  Deydier  was  obdurate  at  first.  What 
had  Nicolette  to  do  with  the  chateau?  Their 
affairs  were  no  concern  of  hers.  He  himself 
never  set  foot  inside  that  old  owl's  nest,  and 
he  had  hoped  that  by  now  Nicolette  had  had 
enough  of  those  proud,  ungrateful  folk.  If 
they  had  trouble  at  the  mas,  would  some  one 
from  the  chateau  come  over  to  see  what  was 
amiss?  But  Nicolette  held  on  to  her  idea.  If 
Micheline  was  in  trouble  she  would  have  no 
one  to  comfort  her.  Even  father  could  not 
object  to  her  friendship  with  Micheline,  dear, 
misshapen,  gentle  Micheline! — and  then  there 
was  the  Comtesse  Marcelle!  If  the  old  Com- 


THE   TURNING   POINT  189 

tesse  spoke  to  either  of  them  at  all,  it  would 
only  be  to  say  unkind  things!  Oh!  it  was  ter- 
rible to  think  of  those  three  women  at  the  cha- 
teau, faced  with  trouble,  and  with  no  one  to 
speak  to  but  one  another.  And  until  recently 
— the  last  two  years,  in  fact — Nicolette  had  al- 
ways gone  over  to  the  chateau  on  Christmas 
afternoon  to  offer  Christmas  greetings  and 
calenos  from  the  mas,  in  the  shape  of  oranges, 
lemons,  tangerines,  and  a  beautiful  Poumpo 
tcdllado,  baked  by  herself.  And  now  when 
Micheline  was  perhaps  in  trouble,  and  she, 
Nicolette,  pining  to  know  what  the  trouble 
was  oh !  father  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  stop 
her  going. 

No  doubt  Deydier  would  have  remained  ob- 
durate, but  just  at  that  moment  he  happened 
to  catch  sight  of  Ameyric.  Tl  e  lad  was  stand- 
ing close  by,  an  eager  expression  on  his  face, 
and — if  such  an  imitation  could  be  laid  at  the 
door  of  so  sober  a  man  as  Jaume  Deydier — 
one  might  almost  say  that  an  imp  of  mischief 
seized  hold  of  him  and  whispered  advice  which 
he  was  prompt  to  take. 

"Well,  boy!"  he  called  over  to  Ameyric; 
"what  do  you  say?  Will  you  call  for  Nico- 
lette after  dinner,  and  walk  with  her  to  the 
chateau?" 


190  NICOLETTE 

"Aye!  and  escort  her  back,"  Ameyric  replied 
eagerly,  "if  Mademoiselle  Deydier  will  allow." 

After  which  the  father  gave  the  required 
permission,  mightily  satisfied  with  his  own  di- 
plomacy. He  had  always  believed  in  Christ- 
mas festivals  for  bringing  lads  and  maidens 
together,  and  he  himself  had  been  tokened  on 
Christmas  Eve. 

Ameyric  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand: 
"Thank  you,  Mossou  Deydier,"  he  murmured. 

"Well,  boy,"  Deydier  retorted  in  a  whisper, 
"it  should  be  to-day  with  you,  or  I  fear  me  it 
will  be  never." 

Whenever  she  thought  over  the  sequence  of 
events  which  had  their  beginning  on  that 
Christmas  morning,  Nicolette  always  looked 
upon  that  climb  up  to  the  chateau  as  a  blank. 
She  could  not  even  have  told  you  if  it  was  cold 
or  warm.  She  wore  her  beautiful  orange-col- 
oured shawl  with  the  embroidery  and  deep 
fringe,  and  she  had  on  shoes  that  were  thor- 
oughly comfortable  for  the  long  tramp  up  the 
road.  She  knew  that  Ameyric  helped  her  to 
carry  the  baskets  that  contained  the  fruits  and 
cakes;  she  also  knew  that  at  times  he  talked  a 
great  deal,  and  that  at  others  there  were  long 
silences  between  them.  She  knew  that  she  was 


THE    TURNING   POINT  191 

very,  very  sorry  for  Ameyric,  because  love  that 
is  not  reciprocated  is  the  most  cruel  pain  that 
can  befall  any  man.  She  also  tried  to  remem- 
ber what  Father  Fournier  had  said  in  his  ser- 
mon at  midnight  Mass,  and  her  own  firm  reso- 
lution not  to  hate  her  enemies,  and  to  submit 
her  selfish  will  to  the  wishes  of  her  father. 

Now  and  again  friends  overtook  them  and 
walked  with  them  a  little  way,  or  others  com- 
ing from  Pertuis  met  them  and  exchanged 
greetings. 

The  roads  between  the  villages  round  about 
here  are  always  busy  at  Christmas  time  with 
people  coming  and  going  to  and  fro,  from 
church,  or  one  another's  houses,  and  Ameyric, 
who  grumbled  when  a  chattering  crowd  came 
to  disturb  his  tete-a-tete  with  Nicolette,  had 
to  own  that,  but  for  the  roads  being  so  busy, 
he  would  not  perhaps  have  been  allowed  to 
walk  at  this  hour  with  Nicolette. 

And  people  who  saw  them  that  afternoon 
spread  the  news  abroad. 

"Ameyric  Barnadou,"  they  said,  "will  be 
tokened  before  the  New  Year  to  Nicolette 
Deydier." 

Father  Simeon-Luce  was  just  leaving  the 
chateau  when  Nicolette  arrived  there  with 
Ameyric.  Jasmin  was  at  the  door,  and  the 


192  NICOLETTE 

old  priest  said  something  to  him,  and  then  put 
on  his  hat.  Ameyric  was  waiting  in  the  court- 
yard, and  Nicolette,  with  a  basket  on  each  arm, 
had  gone  up  to  the  main  entrance  door  alone. 
She  curtsied  to  the  priest,  who  nodded  to  her 
in  an  absent-minded  manner. 

"Very  sad,  very  sad,"  he  murmured  ab- 
stractedly, "but  only  to  be  expected."  Then 
he  seemed  to  become  aware  of  Nicolette's  iden- 
tity, and  added  kindly: 

"You  have  come  to  see  Mademoiselle  Miche- 
line,  my  child?  Ah!  a  very  sad  Christmas  for 
them  all." 

But  somehow  Nicolette  felt  that  these  were 
conventional  words,  and  that  if  there  had  been 
real  sorrow  at  the  chateau,  Father  Simeon- 
Luce  would  have  looked  more  sympathetic. 
Somewhat  reassured  already,  Nicolette  waited 
till  the  old  priest  had  gone  across  the  court- 
yard, then  she  slipped  in  through  the  great 
door  and  spoke  to  Jasmin: 

VWho  is  it,  Jasmin?"  she  asked  -excitedly. 

"Madame  de  Mont-Pahon,"  the  old  man  re- 
plied, and  Nicolette  was  conscious  of  an  im- 
mense feeling  of  relief.  She  had  not  realised 
herself  until  this  moment  how  desperately  anx- 
ious she  had  been. 

"She  died,  it  seems,  the  night  before  last,  in 


THE    TURNING   POINT  193 

Paris,"  Jasmin  went  on  glibly,  "but  how  the 
news  came  here  early  this  morning,  I  do  not 
pretend  to  know,  Mam'zelle  Nicolette,"  he 
added  in  an  awed  whisper,  "it  must  be  through 
the  devil's  agency." 

Jasmin  had  never  even  tried  to  fathom  the 
mysteries  of  the  new  aerial  telegraph  which  of 
late  had  been  extended  as  far  as  Avignon,  and 
which  brought  news  from  Paris  quicker  than 
a  man  could  ride  from  Pertuis.  The  devil,  in 
truth,  had  something  to  do  with  that,  and  Jas- 
min very  much  hoped  that  Father  Simeon- 
Luce  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  exorcising 
those  powers  of  darkness  whilst  he  ate  his 
Christmas  dinner  with  the  family. 

"Can  I  see  Mademoiselle  Micheline?"  Nico- 
lette broke  in  impatiently  on  the  old  man's 
mutterings. 

"Yes,  yes,  mam'zelle!  Mademoiselle  Miche- 
line must  be  somewhere  about  the  house.  But 
mam'zelle  must  excuse  me — we — we — are  busy 
in  the  kitchen " 

"Yes,  yes,  go,  Jasmin!    I'll  find  my  way." 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  twi- 
light was  drawing  rapidly  in;  while  Jasmin 
shuffled  off  in  one  direction  Nicolette  made  her 
way  through  the  vestibule.  It  was  very  dark, 
for  candles  were  terribly  dear  these  days,  but 


194  NICOLETTE 

Nicolette  knew  every  flagstone,  every  piece 
of  furniture  in  the  familiar  old  place,  and  she 
made  her  way  cautiously  toward  the  great  hall, 
where  hung  the  portraits.  A  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion came  from  there.  Then  and  only  then  did 
Nicolette  realise  what  a  foolish  thing  she  had 
done.  How  would  she  dare  thrust  herself  in 
the  midst  of  the  family  circle  at  a  moment  like 
this?  She  had  taken  to  living  of  late  so  much 
in  the  past  that  she  had  not  realised  how  un- 
welcome she  was  at  the  chateau:  but  now  she 
remembered :  she  remembered  the  last  time  she 
had  been  here,  and  how  the  old  Comtesse  had 
not  even  spoken  to  her,  whilst  Bertrand's 
fiancee  had  made  cutting  remarks  about  her. 
She  looked  down  ruefully  on  her  baskets,  feel- 
ing that  her  cakes  would  no  more  be  appreci- 
ated than  herself.  A  furious  desire  seized  her 
to  turn  back  and  to  run  away:  but  she  would 
leave  the  calenos  with  Jasmin,  for  she  would  be 
ashamed  to  own  to  her  father  what  a  coward 
she  had  been.  Already  she  had  made  a  move- 
ment to  go,  when  a  name  spoken  over  there  in 
the  portrait  gallery  fell  on  her  ear. 

"Bertrand." 

Instinctively  Nicolette  paused:  there  was 
magic  in  the  name :  she  could  not  go  whilst  its 
echo  lingered  in  the  old  hall. 


THE    TURNING   POINT  195 

"It  need  make  no  difference  to  Bertrand's 
plans,"  the  old  Comtesse  was  saying  in  that 
hard,  decisive  tone  which  seemed  to  dispose  of 
the  destinies  of  her  whole  family. 

Hers  was  the  only  voice  that  penetrated  as 
far  as  the  vestibule  where  Nicolette  had  re- 
mained standing;  the  soft,  wearied  tones  of  the 
Comtesse  Marcelle,  and  the  uncertain  ones  of 
Micheline  did  not  reach  the  listener's  ears. 

"No.  Perhaps  not  for  the  New  Year,"  the 
old  Comtesse  said  presently  in  response  to  a 
remark  from  one  of  the  others;  "but  soon,  you 
may  be  sure.  The  will  will  be  read  directly 
after  the  funeral,  and  there  is  no  reason  why 
Bertrand  should  not  be  here  a  week  later." 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  during  which  all 
that  Nicolette  heard  was  a  weary  sigh.  Then 
Madame's  harsh  voice  was  raised  again. 

"You  are  a  fool,  my  good  Marcelle!  What 
should  go  wrong,  I  should  like  to  know?  ..." 

Then  once  more  a  pause  and  presently  a 
loud,  hard  laugh. 

"Pardi!  but  I  should  not  have  credited  you 
with  such  a  talent  for  raising  bogeys,  my  dear. 
Have  I  not  told  you,  over  and  over  again,  that 
I  had  Sybille  de  Mont-Pahon's  definite  prom- 
ise that  the  two  young  people  shall  be  co-heirs 
of  her  fortune?  Instead  of  lamenting  there, 


196  NICOLETTE 

you  should  rejoice.  Sybille  has  died  most  op- 
portunely, for  now  Bertrand  can  pay  his  debts 
even  before  his  marriage,  and  the  young  couple 
can  make  a  start  without  a  cloud  upon  the 
horizon  of  their  lives!" 

At  this  point  Nicolette  felt  that  she  had  no 
right  to  listen  further.  She  deposited  her  two 
baskets  upon  the  table  in  the  vestibule,  and 
tiptoed  back  to  the  door.  Even  as  she  did  so 
she  heard  old  Madame's  unpleasant  voice  raised 
once  more. 

"You  should  thank  me  on  your  knees,"  she 
said  tartly,  "for  all  I  have  done.  Debts,  you 
call  them?  and  dare  to  upbraid  me  for  having 
contracted  them?  Let  me  tell  you  this:  Rix- 
ende  de  Peyron-Bompar  would  never  have  tol- 
erated this  old  barrack  at  all,  had  she  seen  it  as 
it  was.  The  stuffs  which  I  bought,  the  carpets, 
the  liveries  for  those  loutish  servants  were  so 
much  capital  invested  to  secure  the  Mont- 
Pahon  millions.  What  did  they  amount  to? 
Five  thousand  louis  at  most!  and  we  have  se- 
cured five  millions  and  Bertrand's  happiness." 

And  Nicolette,  as  she  finally  ran  out  of  the 
house,  heard  a  murmur,  like  a  sigh  of  longing : 

"God  grant  it!" 

But  she  was  not  quite  sure  whether  the  sound 
came  from  the  old  picture  hall,  or  was  just  the 


THE    TURNING   POINT  197 

echo  of  the  wish  that  had  risen  from  her  heart. 

Outside  she  met  Ameyric,  and  he  escorted 
her  home.  He  spoke  again  of  his  love,  and 
she  was  no  longer  impatient  to  hear  him  talk. 
She  was  intensely  sorry  for  him.  If  he  had 
the  same  pain  in  his  heart  that  she  had,  then 
he  was  immensely  to  be  pitied :  and  if  it  lay  in 
her  power  to  make  one  man  happy,  then  surely 
it  was  her  duty  to  do  so. 

But  she  would  make  no  definite  promise. 

"Let  us  wait  until  the  spring,"  she  said,  in 
answer  to  an  earnest  appeal  from  him  for  a 
quick  decision. 

"Orange-blossom  time?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  she  replied. 

And  with  this  half -promise  he  had  perforce 
to  be  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  X 

WOMAN  TO  WOMAN 

IT  was  fourteen  days  after  the  New  Year. 
Snow  had  fallen,  and  the  mistral  had  blown 
for  forty-eight  hours  unmercifully  down  the 
valley.  News  from  Paris  had  been  scanty,  but 
such  as  they  were,  they  were  reassuring.  A 
courier  had  come  over  all  the  way  from  Paris 
on  New  Year's  eve,  with  a  letter  from  Ber- 
trand,  giving  a  few  details  of  the  proposed  ar- 
rangements for  Madame  de  Mont-Pahon's  fu- 
neral, which  was  to  take  place  on  the  feast  of 
the  Holy  Innocents.  The  letter  had  been  writ- 
ten on  the  day  following  her  death,  which  had 
come  as  a  great  shock  to  everybody,  even 
though  she  had  been  constantly  ailing  of  late. 
Directly  after  the  funeral,  he,  Bertrand,  would 
set  off  for  home  in  the  company  of  M.  de  Pey- 
ron-Bompar,  Bixende's  father,  who  desired  to 
talk  over  the  new  arrangements  that  would 
have  to  be  made  for  his  daughter's  marriage. 
The  wedding  would  of  course  have  to  be  post- 
poned for  a  few  months,  but  there  was  no  rea- 

198 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  199 

son  why  it  should  not  take  place  before  the  end 
of  the  summer,  and  as  Rixende  no  longer  had 
a  home  now  in  Paris,  the  ceremonies  could  well 
taken  place  in  Bertrand's  old  home. 

This  last  suggestion  sent  old  Madame  into 
a  veritable  frenzy  of  management.  The  mar- 
riage of  the  last  of  the  de  Ventadours  should 
be  solemnised  with  a  splendour  worthy  of  the 
most  noble  traditions  of  his  house.  Closeted 
all  day  with  Perone,  her  confidential  maid,  the 
old  Comtesse  planned  and  arranged:  day  after 
day  couriers  arrived  from  Avignon,  from 
Lyons  and  from  Marseilles,  with  samples  and 
designs  and  suggestions  for  decorations,  for 
banquets,  for  entertainments  on  a  brilliant 
scale. 

A  whole  fortnight  went  by  in  this  whirl,  old 
Madame  having  apparently  eschewed  all  idea 
of  mourning  for  her  dead  sister.  There  were 
consultations  with  Father  Simeon-Luce  too, 
the  Bishop  of  Avignon  must  come  over  to  per- 
form the  religious  ceremony  in  the  private 
chapel  of  the  chateau:  fresh  altar-frontals  and 
vestments  must  be  ordered  at  Aries  for  the 
great  occasion. 

Old  Madame's  mood  was  electrical:  Miche- 
line  quickly  succumbed  to  it.  She  was  young, 
and  despite  her  physical  infirmities,  she  was 


200  NICOLETTE 

woman  enough  to  thrill  at  thoughts  of  a  wed- 
ding, of  pretty  clothes,  bridal  bouquets  and 
banquets.  And  she  loved  Rixende!  the  dainty 
fairy -like  creature  who,  according  to  grandma- 
ma's  unerring  judgment,  would  resuscitate  all 
the  past  splendours  of  the  old  chateau  and  make 
it  resound  once  more  with  song  and  laughter. 

Even  the  Comtesse  Marcelle  was  not  wholly 
proof  against  the  atmosphere  of  excitement. 
Meetings  were  held  in  her  room,  and  more 
than  once  she  actually  gave  her  opinion  on 
the  future  choice  of  a  dress  for  Micheline,  or 
of  a  special  dish  for  the  wedding  banquet. 

Bertrand  was  expected  three  days  after  the 
New  Year.  Grandmama  had  decided  that  if 
he  and  M.  de  Peyron-Bompar  started  on  the 
29th,  the  day  after  the  funeral,  and  they  were 
not  delayed  anywhere  owing  to  the  weather 
conditions,  they  need  not  be  longer  than  five 
days  on  the  way.  Whereupon  she  set  to,  and 
ordered  Jasmin  to  recruit  a  few  lads  from  La 
Bastide  or  Manosque,  and  to  clean  out  the 
coach-house  and  the  stables,  and  to  lay  in  a 
provision  of  straw  and  forage,  as  M.  le  Comte 
de  Ventadour  would  be  arriving  in  a  few  days 
in  his  caleche  with  four  horses  and  postilions. 

Nor  were  her  spirits  affected  by  Bertrand's 
non-arrival.  The  weather  accounted  for 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  201 

everything.  The  roads  were  blocked.  If  there 
had  been  a  fall  of  snow  here  in  the  south,  there 
must  have  been  positive  avalanches  up  in  the 
north.  And  while  the  Comtesse  Marcelle  with 
her  usual  want  of  spirit  began  to  droop  once 
more  after  those  few  days  of  factitious  well- 
being,  old  Madame's  energies  went  on  increas- 
ing, her  activities  never  abated.  She  found  in 
Micheline  a  willing,  eager  help,  and  a  pale 
semblance  of  sympathy  sprang  up  between  the 
young  cripple  and  the  stately  old  grandmother 
over  their  feverish  plans  for  Bertrand's  wed- 
ding. 

The  tenth  day  after  the  New  Year,  the  Com- 
tesse Marcelle  once  more  took  to  her  couch. 
She  had  a  serious  fainting  fit  in  the  morning 
brought  on  by  excitement  when  a  carriage  was 
heard  to  rattle  along  the  road.  When  the 
sound  died  away  and  she  realised  that  the  car- 
riage had  not  brought  Bertrand,  she  slid  down 
to  the  floor  like  a  poor  bundle  of  rags  and  was 
subsequently  found,  lying  unconscious  on  the 
doorstep  of  her  own  room,  where  she  had  been 
standing  waiting  to  clasp  Bertrand  in  her 
arms. 

Grandmama  scolded  her,  tried  to  revive  her 
spirits  by  discussing  the  decorations  of  Rix- 
ende's  proposed  boudoir,  but  Marcelle  had 


202  NICOLETTE 

sunk  back  into  her  habitual  listlessness  and 
grandmama/s  grandiloquent  plans  only  seemed 
to  exacerbate  her  nerves.  She  fell  from  one 
fainting  fit  into  another,  the  presence  of  Pe- 
rone  was  hateful  to  her,  Micheline  was  willing 
but  clumsy.  The  next  day  found  her  in  a  state 
of  fever,  wide-eyed,  her  cheeks  of  an  ashen 
colour,  her  thin  hands  perpetually  twitching, 
and  a  look  of  pathetic  expectancy  in  her 
sunken,  wearied  face.  In  the  end,  though 
grandmama  protested  and  brought  forth  the 
whole  artillery  of  her  sarcasm  to  bear  against 
the  project,  Micheline  walked  over  to  the  mas 
and  begged  Nicolette  to  come  over  and  help 
her  look  after  mother,  who  once  or  twice,  when 
she  moaned  with  the  pain  in  her  head,  had  ex- 
pressed the  desire  to  have  the  girl  beside  her. 
Of  course  Jaume  Deydier  protested,  but  as 
usual  Nicolette  had  her  way,  and  the  next  day 
found  her  installed  as  sick-nurse  in  the  room 
of  the  Comtesse  Marcelle.  She  only  went 
home  to  sleep.  It  was  decided  that  if  the  next 
two  days  saw  no  real  improvement  in  the  pa- 
tient's condition,  a  messenger  should  be  sent 
over  to  Pertuis  to  fetch  a  physician.  For  the 
moment  she  certainly  appeared  more  calm,  and 
seemed  content  that  Nicolette  should  wait  on 
her. 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  203 

But  on  the  fourteenth  day,  even  old  Madame 
appeared  to  be  restless.  All  day  she  kept  re- 
peating to  any  one  who  happened  to  be  nigh 
— to  Micheline,  to  Perone,  to  Jasmin — that  the 
weather  was  accountable  for  Bertrand's  delay, 
that  he  and  M.  de  Peyron-Bompar  would 
surely  be  here  before  nightfall,  and  that,  what- 
ever else  happened,  supper  must  be  kept  ready 
for  the  two  travellers  and  it  must  be  good  and 
hot. 

It  was  then  four  o'clock.  The  volets  all 
along  the  facade  of  the  chateau  had  been  closed, 
and  the  curtains  closed  in  all  the  rooms.  The 
old  Comtesse,  impatient  at  her  daughter-in- 
law's  wan,  reproachful  looks,  and  irritated  by 
Nicolette's  presence  in  the  invalid's  room,  had 
avoided  it  all  day  and  kept  to  her  own  apart- 
ments, where  Perone,  obsequious  and  sympa- 
thetic, was  always  ready  to  listen  to  her  latest 
schemes  and  plans.  Later  on  in  the  afternoon 
Micheline  had  been  summoned  to  take  coffee 
in  grandmama's  room,  and  as  mother  seemed 
inclined  to  sleep  and  Nicolette  had  promised 
not  to  go  away  till  Micheline  returned,  the  lat- 
ter went  readily  enough.  The  question  of 
Micheline's  own  dress  for  the  wedding  was  to 
be  the  subject  of  debate,  and  Micheline,  having 
kissed  her  mother,  and  made  Nicolette  swear  to 


204  NICOLETTE 

come  and  tell  her  the  moment  the  dear  patient 
woke,  ran  over  to  grandmama's  room. 

Nicolette  rearranged  the  pillows  round  Mar- 
celle's  aching  head,  then  she  sat  down  by  the 
table,  and  took  up  her  needlework.  After 
awhile  it  certainly  seemed  as  if  the  invalid 
slept.  The  house  was  very  still.  In  the  hearth 
a  log  of  olive-wood  crackled  cheerfully.  Sud- 
denly Nicolette  looked  up  from  her  work.  She 
encountered  Marcelle  de  Ventadour's  eyes 
fixed  upon  her.  They  looked  large,  dark, 
eager.  Nicolette  felt  that  her  own  heart  was 
beating  furiously,  and  a  wave  of  heat  rushed  to 
her  cheeks.  She  had  heard  a  sound,  coming 
from  the  courtyard  below — a  commotion — the 
tramp  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  flagstones — 
she  was  sure  of  that — then  the  clanking  of 
metal — a  shout — Bertrand's  voice — no  doubt 
of  that 

Marcelle  had  raised  herself  on  her  couch:  a 
world  of  expectancy  in  her  eyes.  Nicolette 
threw  down  her  work,  and  in  an  instant  was 
out  of  the  room  and  running  along  the  gallery 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Here  she  paused  for 
a  moment,  paralysed  with  excitement :  the  next 
she  heard  the  clang  of  the  bolts  being  pulled 
open,  the  rattling  of  the  chain,  and  Jasmin's 
cry  of  astonishment : 


WOMAN   TO   WOMAN  205 

"M.leComte!" 

For  the  space  of  two  seconds  Nicolette  hesi- 
tated between  her  longing  to  run  down  the 
stairs  so  as  to  be  first  to  wish  Tan-tan  a  happy 
New  Year,  and  the  wish  to  go  back  to  the 
Comtesse  Marcelle  and  see  that  the  happy 
shock  did  not  bring  on  an  attack  of  fainting. 
The  latter  impulse  prevailed.  She  turned  and 
ran  back  along  the  gallery.  But  Marcelle  de 
Ventadour  had  forestalled  her.  She  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  her  room,  under  the  lintel. 
She  had  a  candle  in  her  hand  and  seemed 
hardly  able  to  stand.  In  the  flickering  light, 
her  features  looked  pinched  and  her  face  hag- 
gard: her  hair  was  dishevelled  and  her  eyes 
seemed  preternaturally  large.  Nicolette  ran 
to  her,  and  was  just  in  time  to  clasp  the  totter- 
ing form  in  her  strong,  steady  arms. 

"It  is  all  right,  madame,"  she  cried  excitedly, 
her  eyes  full  with  tears  of  joy,  "all  right,  it  is 
Bertrand!" 

"Bertrand,"  the  mother  murmured  feebly, 
and  then  reiterated,  babbling  like  a  child:  "It 
is  all  right,  it  is  Bertrand  I" 

Bertrand  came  slowly  across  the  vestibule, 
then  more  slowly  still  up  the  stairs.  The  two 
women  could  not  see  him  for  the  moment :  they 
just  heard  his  slow  and  heavy  footstep  coming 


206  NICOLETTE 

nearer  and  nearer.  The  well  of  the  staircase 
was  in  gloom,  only  lit  by  an  oil  lamp  that  hung 
high  up  from  the  ceiling,  and  after  a  moment 
or  two  Bertrand  came  round  the  bend  of  the 
stairs  and  they  saw  the  top  of  his  head  sunk 
between  his  shoulders.  His  shadow  projected 
by  the  flickering  lamp -light  looked  grotesque 
against  the  wall,  all  hunched-up,  like  that  of 
an  old  man. 

Nicolette  murmured:  "I'll  run  and  tell 
Micheline  and  Mme.  la  Comtesse!"  but  sud- 
denly Marcelle  drew  her  back,  back  into  the 
room.  The  girl  felt  scared:  all  her  pleasure 
in  Bertrand's  coming  had  vanished.  Somehow 
she  wished  that  she  had  not  seen  him — that  it 
was  all  a  dream  and  that  Bertrand  was  not 
really  there.  Marcelle  had  put  the  candle 
down  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
Her  face  looked  very  white,  but  her  hands  were 
quite  steady ;  she  turned  up  the  lamp  and  blew 
out  the  candle  and  set  it  on  one  side,  then  she 
drew  a  chair  close  to  the  hearth,  but  she  herself 
remained  standing,  only  steadied  herself  with 
both  her  hands  against  the  chair,  and  stared 
at  the  open  doorway  All  the  while  Nicolette 
knew  that  she  must  not  run  out  and  meet  Ber- 
trand, that  she  must  not  call  to  him  to  hurry. 
His  mother  wished  that  he  should  come  into 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  207 

her  room,  and  tell  her — tell  her  what?    Nico- 
lette  did  not  know. 

Now  Bertrand  was  coming  along  the  cor- 
ridor. He  paused  one  moment  at  the  door: 
then  he  came  in.  He  was  in  riding  breeches 
and  boots,  and  the  collar  of  his  coat  was  turned 
up  to  his  ears:  he  held  his  riding  whip  in  his 
gloved  hand,  but  he  had  thrown  down  his  hat, 
and  his  hair  appeared  moist  and  dishevelled. 
On  the  smooth  blue  cloth  of  his  coat,  myriads 
of  tiny  drops  of  moisture  glistened  like  so  many 
diamonds. 

"It  is  snowing  a  little,"  were  the  first  words 
that  he  said.  "I  am  sorry  I  am  so  wet." 

"Bertrand,"  the  mother  cried  in  an  agony  of 
entreaty,  "what  is  it?" 

He  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  looked  at  her  as  if  he  thought  her  crazy 
for  asking  such  a  question.  Then  he  came 
farther  into  the  room,  threw  his  whip  down  on 
the  table  and  pulled  off  his  gloves:  but  still 
he  said  nothing.  His  mother  and  Nicolette 
watched  him;  but  Marcelle  did  not  ask  again. 
She  just  waited.  Presently  he  sat  down  on 
the  chair  by  the  hearth,  rested  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  held  his  hands  to  the  blaze.  Nico- 
lette from  where  she  stood  could  only  see  his 


208  NICOLETTE 

face  in  profile:  it  looked  cold  and  pinched  and 
his  eyes  stared  into  the  fire. 

"It  is  all  over,  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "that 
is  all." 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  went  up  to  her  son, 
and  put  her  thin  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  mean ?"  she  murmured. 

"Mme.  de  Mont-Pahon,"  he  went  on  in  a 
perfectly  quiet,  matter-of-fact  tone  of  voice, 
"has  left  the  whole  of  her  fortune  to  her  great- 
niece  Rixende  absolutely.  Two  hours  after 
the  reading  of  the  will,  M.  de  Peyron-Bompar 
came  to  me  and  told  me  in  no  measured  lan- 
guage that  having  heard  in  what  a  slough  of 
debt  I  and  my  family  were  wallowing,  he  would 
not  allow  his  daughter's  fortune  to  be  dissi- 
pated in  vain  efforts  to  drag  us  out  of  that 
mire.  He  ended  by  declaring  that  all  idea 
of  my  marrying  Rixende  must  at  once  be 
given  up." 

Here  his  voice  shook  a  little,  and  with  a 
quick,  impatient  gesture  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  brows.  Marcelle  de  Ventadour  said 
nothing  for  the  moment.  Her  hand  was  still 
on  his  shoulder.  Nicolette,  who  watched  her 
closely,  saw  not  the  faintest  sign  of  physical 
weakness  in  her  quiet,  silent  attitude.  Then  as 
Bertrand  was  silent  too,  she  asked  after  awhile : 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  209 

"Did  you  speak  to  Rixende?" 

"Did  I  speak  to  Rixende?"  he  retorted,  and 
a  hard,  unnatural  laugh  broke  from  his 
parched,  choking  throat.  "My  God!  until  I 
spoke  with  her  I  had  no  idea  how  much  humilia- 
tion a  man  could  endure,  and  survive  the  shame 
of  it." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  a  great 
sob  shook  his  bent  shoulders.  Marcelle  de 
Ventadour  stared  wide-eyed  into  the  fire,  and 
Nicolette,  watching  Tan-tan's  grief,  felt  that 
Mother  Earth  could  not  hold  greater  misery 
for  any  child  of  hers  than  that  which  she  en- 
dured at  this  moment. 

"Rixende  did  not  love  you,  Bertrand,"  the 
mother  murmured  dully,  "she  never  loved 
you." 

"She  must  have  hated  me,"  Bertrand  re- 
joined quietly,  "and  now  she  despises  me  too. 
You  should  have  heard  her  laugh,  mother, 
when  I  spoke  to  her  of  our  life  here  together 
in  the  old  chateau " 

His  voice  broke.  Of  course  he  could  not 
bear  to  speak  of  it :  and  Nicolette  had  to  stand 
by,  seemingly  indifferent,  whilst  she  saw  great 
tears  force  themselves  into  his  eyes.  She 
longed  to  put  her  arms  round  him,  to  draw  his 
head  against  her  cheek,  to  smooth  his  hair  and 


210  NICOLETTE 

kiss  the  tears  away.  Her  heart  was  full  with 
words  of  comfort,  of  hope,  of  love  which,  if 
only  she  dared,  she  would  have  given  half  her 
life  to  utter.  But  she  was  the  stranger,  the 
intruder  even,  at  this  hour.  Except  for  the 
fact  that  she  was  genuinely  afraid  Marcelle 
de  Ventadour  might  collapse  at  any  moment, 
she  would  have  slipped  away  unseen.  Marcelle 
for  the  moment  seemed  to  find  in  her  son's 
grief,  a  measure  of  strength  such  as  she  had 
not  known  whilst  she  was  happy.  She  had  led 
such  an  isolated,  self-centred  life  that  she  was 
too  shy  now  to  be  demonstrative,  and  it  was 
pathetic  to  watch  the  effort  which  she  made  to 
try  and  speak  the  words  of  comfort  which  ob- 
viously hovered  on  her  lips;  but  nevertheless 
she  stood  by  him,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
and  something  of  the  magnetism  of  her  love  for 
him  must  have  touched  his  senses,  for  presently 
he  seized  hold  of  her  hand  and  pressed  it 
against  his  lips. 

The  clock  above  the  hearth  ticked  loudly 
with  a  nerve-racking  monotony.  The  minutes 
sped  on  while  Bertrand  and  his  mother  stared 
into  the  fire,  both  their  minds  a  blank — grief 
having  erased  every  other  thought  from  their 
brain.  Nicolette  hardly  dared  to  move.  So 
far  it  seemed  that  Bertrand  had  remained  en- 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  211 

tirely  unaware  of  her  presence,  and  in  her 
heart  she  prayed  that  he  might  not  see  her, 
lest  he  felt  his  humiliation  and  his  misery  more 
completely  if  he  thought  that  she  had  wit- 
nessed it. 

After  awhile  the  Comtesse  Marcelle  said : 

"You  must  be  hungry,  Bertrand,  we'll  let 
grandmama  know  you're  here.  She  has  or- 
dered supper  to  be  ready  for  you,  as  soon  as 
you  came." 

Bertrand  appeared  to  wake  as  if  out  of  a 
dream. 

"Did  you  spe'ak,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"You  must  be  hungry,  dear." 

"Yes — yes!"  he  murmured  vaguely.  "Per- 
haps I  am.  It  was  a  long  ride  from  Pertuis 
— the  roads  are  bad " 

"Grandmama  has  ordered " 

But  quickly  Bertrand  seized  his  mother's 
hands  again.  "Don't  tell  grandmama  yet,"  he 
said  hoarsely.  "I — I  could  not — not  yet.  .  .  ." 

"But  you  must  be  hungry,  dear,"  the  mother 
insisted,  "and  grandmama  will  have  to  know," 
she  added  gently.  "And  there  is  Micheline !" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  retorted.  "I  am  a  fool 
— but Let  us  wait  a  little,  shall  we?" 

Again  he  kissed  his  mother's  hands,  but  he 
never  once  looked  up  into  her  face.  Once 


212  NICOLETTE 

when  the  light  from  the  lamp  struck  full  upon 
him,  Nicolette  saw  how  much  older  he  had 
grown,  and  that  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  as 
if  he  was  looking  into  the  future,  and  saw  some- 
thing there  that  was  tragic  and  inevitable! 

That  look  frightened  her.  But  what  could 
she  do?  Some  one  ought  to  be  warned  and 
Bertrand  should  not  be  allowed  to  remain  alone 
— not  for  one  moment.  Did  the  mother  realise 
this?  Was  this  the  reason  why  she  remained 
standing  beside  him  with  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, as  if  to  warn  him  or  to  protect? 

Five  minutes  went  by,  perhaps  ten!  For 
Nicolette  it  was  an  eternity.  Then  suddenly 
grandmama's  voice  was  heard  from  way  down 
the  gallery,  obviously  speaking  to  Jasmin: 

"Why  was  I  not  told  at  once?" 

After  which  there  was  a  pause,  and  then  foot- 
steps along  the  corridor:  Micheline's  halting 
dot  and  carry  one,  grandmama's  stately  gait. 

"I  can't,"  Bertrand  said  and  jumped  to  his 
feet.  "You  tell  her,  mother." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  Marcelle  rejoined 
soothingly,  quite  gently  as  if  she  were  speak- 
ing to  a  sick  child. 

"Let  me  get  away  somewhere,"  he  went  on, 
"where  she  can't  see  me — not  just  yet — I 
can't " 


WOMAN    TO   WOMAN  213 

It  was  Nicolette  who  ran  to  the  door  which 
gave  on  Marcelle's  bedroom,  and  threw  it  open. 

"That's  it,  my  dear,"  Marcelle  said,  and  tak- 
ing Bertrand's  hand  she  led  him  towards  the 
door.  "Nicolette  is  quite  right — go  into  my 
bedroom — I'll  explain  to  grandmama." 

"Nicolette?"  Bertrand  murmured  and 
turned  his  eyes  on  her,  as  if  suddenly  made 
aware  of  her  presence.  A  dark  flush  spread 
all  over  his  face.  "I  didn't  know  she  was  here." 

The  two  women  exchanged  glances.  They 
understood  one  another.  It  meant  looking 
after  Bertrand,  and,  if  possible,  keeping  old 
Madame  from  him  for  a  little  while. 

Bertrand  followed  Nicolette  into  his  moth- 
er's room.  He  did  not  speak  to  her  again, 
but  sank  into  a  chair  as  if  he  were  mortally 
tired.  She  went  to  a  cupboard  where  a  few 
provisions  were  always  kept  for  Marcelle  de 
Ventadour,  in  case  she  required  them  in  the 
night:  a  bottle  of  wine  and  some  cake.  Nico- 
lette put  these  on  the  table  with  a  glass  and 
poured  out  the  wine. 

"Drink  it,  Bertrand,"  she  whispered,  "it  will 
please  your  mother." 

Later  she  went  back  to  the  boudoir.  Old 
Madame  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 


214  N  I  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

room,  and  as  Nicolette  entered  she  was  saying 
tartly : 

"But  why  was  I  not  told?" 

"I  was  just  on  the  point  of  sending  Nico- 

lette  to  you,  Madame "  Marcelle  de  Ven- 

tadour  said  timidly.  Her  voice  was  shaking, 
her  face  flushed  and  she  wandered  about  the 
room,  restlessly  fingering  the  draperies. 
Whereupon  the  old  Comtesse  raised  her  lor- 
gnette and  stared  at  Nicolette. 

"Ah!"  she  said  coldly,  "Mademoiselle  Dey- 
dier  has  not  yet  gone?" 

"She  was  just  going,  Madame,"  the  younger 
woman  rejoined,  "when " 

"Then  you  have  not  yet  seen  Bertrand?" 
grandmama  broke  in. 

"No,"  Marcelle  replied,  stammering  and 
flushing,  "that  is " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'No,  .  .  .  that  is, 
.  .  .'?"  old  Madame  retorted  sharply.  "Ah 
fa,  my  good  Marcelle,  what  is  all  this  mystery? 
Where  is  my  grandson?" 

"He  was  here  a  moment  ago,  he " 

"And  where  is  M.  de  Peyron-Bompar?" 

"He  did  not  come.  He  is  in  Paris — that 
is — I  think  so " 

"M.  de  Peyron-Bompar  not  here?  But " 

Suddenly  she  paused:  and  Nicolette  who 


WOMAN    TO   WO  MAN  215 

watched  her,  saw  that  the  last  vestige  of  colour 
left  her  cheeks.  Her  eyelids  fluttered  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  her  eyes  narrowed,  nar- 
rowed till  they  were  mere  slits.  The  Comtesse 
Marcelle  stood  by  the  table,  steadying  herself 
against  it  with  her  hand:  but  that  hand  was 
shaking  visibly.  Old  Madame  walked  slowly, 
deliberately  across  the  room  until  she  came  to 
within  two  steps  of  her  daughter-in-law:  then 
she  said  very  quietly: 

"What  has  happened  to  Bertrand?" 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  gave  a  forced  little 
laugh. 

"Why,  nothing,  Madame,"  she  said.  "What 
should  have  happened?" 

"You  are  a  fool,  Marcelle,"  grandmama 
went  on  with  slow  deliberation.  "Your  face 
and  your  hands  have  betrayed  you.  Tell  me 
what  has  happened  to  Bertrand." 

"Nothing,"  Marcelle  replied,  "nothing!" 
But  her  voice  broke  in  a  sob,  she  sank  into  a 
chair  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"If  you  don't  tell  me,  I  will  think  the  worst," 
old  Madame  continued  quietly.  "Jasmin  has 
seen  him.  He  is  in  the  house.  But  he  dare 
not  face  me.  Why  not?" 

But  Marcelle  was  at  the  end  of  her  tether. 
"Now  she  could  do  no  more  than  moan  and  cry. 


216  NICOLETTE 

"His  marriage  with  Rixende  de  Peyron- 
Bompar  is  broken  off.  Speak,"  the  old  woman 
added,  and  with  her  claw-like  hand  seized  her 
daughter-in-law  by  the  shoulder,  "fool,  can't 
you  speak?  Nom  de  Dieu,  I'll  have  to  know 
presently." 

Her  grip  was  so  strong  that  involuntarily, 
Marcelle  gave  a  cry  of  pain.  This  was  more 
than  Nicolette  could  stand:  even  her  timidity 
gave  way  before  her  instinct  of  protection,  of 
standing  up  for  this  poor,  tortured,  weak 
woman  whom  she  loved  because  she  was  the 
mother  of  Tan-tan  and  suffered  now  almost 
as  much  as  he  did.  She  ran  to  Marcelle  and 
put  her  arms  round  her,  shielding  her  against 
further  attack  from  the  masterful,  old  woman. 

"Mme.  la  Comtesse  is  overwrought,"  she 
said  firmly,  "or  she  would  have  said  at  once 
what  has  happened.  M.  le  Comte  has  come 
home  alone.  Mme.  de  Mont-Pahon  has  left 
the  whole  of  her  fortune  to  Mile.  Rixende  ab- 
solutely, and  so  she,  and  M.  de  Peyron-Bom- 
par  have  broken  off  the  marriage,  and,"  she 
added  boldly,  "we  are  all  thanking  God  that 
he  has  saved  M.  le  Comte  from  those  awful 
harpies !" 

Old  Madame  had  listened  in  perfect  silence 
while  Nicolette  spoke :  and  indeed  the  girl  her- 


WOMANTOWOMAN  217 

self  could  not  help  but  pay  a  quick  and  grudg- 
ing tribute  of  admiration  to  this  old  woman, 
who  faithful  to  the  traditions  of  her  aristocratic 
forbears,  received  this  staggering  blow  without 
flinching  and  without  betraying  for  one  instant 
what  she  felt.  There  was  absolute  silence  in 
the  room  after  that:  only  the  clock  continued 
its  dreary  and  monotonous  ticking.  The  Com- 
tesse  Marcelle  lay  back  on  her  couch  with 
eyes  closed  and  a  look  almost  of  relief  on  her 
wan  face,  now  that  the  dread  moment  had  come 
and  gone.  Micheline  had,  as  usual,  taken  ref- 
uge in  the  window  embrasure  and  Nicolette 
knelt  beside  Marcelle,  softly  chafing  her  hands. 
Grandmama  was  still  standing  beside  the 
table,  lorgnette  in  hand,  erect  and  unmoved. 
"Bertrand,"  she  said  after  awhile,  "is  in 
there,  I  suppose."  And  with  her  lorgnette  she 
pointed  to  the  bedroom  door,  which  Nicolette 
had  carefully  closed  when  she  entered,  draw- 
ing the  heavy  portiere  before  it,  so  as  to  pre- 
vent the  sound  of  voices  from  penetrating 
through.  Nicolette  hoped  that  Bertrand  had 
heard  nothing  of  what  had  gone  on  in  the  bou- 
doir, and  now  when  grandmama  pointed  to- 
ward the  door,  she  instinctively  rose  to  her  feet 
as  if  making  ready  to  stand  between  this  iras- 
cible old  woman  and  the  grief-stricken  man. 


218  NICOLETTE 

But  old  Madame  only  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  looked  down  with  unconcealed  contempt 
on  her  daughter-in-law. 

"I  ought  to  have  guessed,"  she  said  dryly, 
"What  a  fool  you  are,  my  good  Marcelle !" 

Then  she  paused  a  moment  and  added  slowly 
as  if  what  she  wished  to  say  caused  her  a  pain- 
ful effort. 

"I  suppose  Bertrand  said  nothing  about 
money?" 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  opened  her  eyes  and 
murmured  vaguely : 

"Money?" 

"Pardi!"  grandmama  retorted  impatiently, 
"the  question  of  money  will  loom  largely  in 
this  affair  presently,  I  imagine.  There  are 
Bertrand's  debts " 

Again  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an 
air  of  indifference,  as  if  that  matter  was  un- 
worthy of  her  consideration. 

"I  suppose  that  his  creditors,  when  they 
heard  that  the  marriage  was  broken  off,  flocked 
around  him  like  vultures. — Did  he  not  speak  of 
that?" 

Slowly  Marcelle  raised  herself  from  her 
couch.  Her  eyes  circled  with  deep  purple  rims 
looked  large  and  glowing,  as  they  remained 
fixed  upon  her  mother-in-law. 


WOMANTOWOMAN  219 

"No,"  she  said  tonelessly,  "Bertrand  is  too 
broken-hearted  at  present  to  think  of  money." 

"He  will  have  to  mend  his  heart  then," 
grandmama  rejoined  dryly,  "those  sharks  will 
be  after  him  soon." 

Marcelle  threw  back  her  head,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment looked  almost  defiant: 

"The  debts  which  he  contracted,  he  did  at 
your  bidding,  Madame,"  she  said. 

"Of  course  he  did,  my  good  Marcelle,"  old 
Madame  retorted  coldly,  "but  the  creditors 
will  want  paying  all  the  same.  If  the  marriage 
had  come  about,  this  would  have  been  easy 
enough,  as  I  told  you  at  the  time.  Bertrand 
was  a  fool  not  to  have  known  how  to  win  that 
jade's  affections." 

A  cry  of  indignation  rose  to  the  mother's 
throat. 

"Oh!" 

"Eh,  what?"  Madame  riposted  unmoved. 
"Young  men  have  before  now  succeeded  in 
gaining  a  woman's  love,  even  when  she  sat 
on  a  mountain  of  money-bags  and  he  had  not 
even  one  to  fasten  to  his  saddle-bow.  It  should 
have  been  easier  for  Bertrand  with  his  physique 
and  his  accomplishments  to  win  a  woman's  love 
than  it  will  be  for  him  to  pay  his  debts." 


220  NICOLETTE 

"You  know  very  well,"  Marcelle  cried,  "that 
he  cannot  do  that." 

"That  is  why  we  shall  have  to  think  of  some- 
thing," grandmama  retorted,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment went  deliberately  towards  the  door.  Her 
hand  was  already  on  the  portiere  and  Nicolette 
stood  by  undecided  what  she  should  do,  when 
suddenly  Marcelle  sprang  forward  more  like 
a  wild  animal,  defending  its  young,  than  an 
ailing,  timid  woman:  she  interposed  her  slim, 
shrunken  form  between  the  door  and  the  old 
woman,  and  whispered  hoarsely,  but  command- 
ingly: 

"What  do  you  want  with  Bertrand?" 

Old  Madame,  taken  aback,  raised  her  aris- 
tocratic eyebrows :  she  looked  her  daughter-in- 
law  ironically  up  and  down,  then,  as  was  her 
wont,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  tried  to 
push  her  aside. 

"My  dear  Marcelle,"  she  said  icily,  "have 
you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?" 

"No,"  Marcelle  replied,  in  a  voice  which  she 
was  endeavouring  to  keep  steady.  "I  only 
want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  say  to 
Bertrand." 

"That  will  depend  on  what  he  tells  me," 
grandmama  went  on  coldly.  "You  do  not  sup- 


WOMAN   TO   WOMAN  221 

pose,  I  presume,  that  the  future  can  be  dis- 
cussed without  my  having  a  say  in  it?" 

"Certainly  not,"  the  younger  woman  re- 
joined, "seeing  that  the  present  is  entirely  of 
your  making." 

"Then  I  pray  you  let  me  go  to  Bertrand. 
I  wish  to  speak  with  him." 

"We'll  call  him.  And  you  shall  speak  with 
him  in  my  presence." 

Now  she  spoke  quite  firmly:  her  face  was 
very  pale  and  her  eyes  certainly  had  a  wild  look 
in  them.  With  a  mechanical  gesture  she 
pushed  the  unruly  strands  of  her  hair  from  her 
moist  forehead.  Old  Madame  gazed  at  her  for 
a  moment  or  two  in  silence,  then  she  broke 
into  harsh,  ironical  laughter. 

ffAh  fa,  ma  mie!"  she  said,  "Will  you  tell 
me,  I  pray,  what  is  the  exact  meaning  of  this 
melodramatic  scene?" 

"I  have  already  told  you,"  Marcelle  replied 
more  calmly,  "if  you  wish  to  speak  with  Ber- 
trand, we'll  call  him,  and  you  shall  speak  with 
him  here." 

"Bertrand  and  I  understand  one  another. 
We  prefer  to  talk  together,  when  we  are 
alone." 

"The  matter  that  concerns  him  concerns  us 


222  NICOLETTE 

all  equally.  You  may  speak  with  him  if  you 
wish — but  only  in  my  presence." 

"But,  nom  de  Dieu!"  old  Madame  ex- 
claimed, "will  you  tell  me  by  what  right  you 
propose  to  stand  between  me  and  my  grand- 
son?" 

"By  the  right  which  you  gave  me,  Madame," 
Marcelle  replied  with  slow  deliberation,  "when 
you  stood  between  your  son  and  me." 

"Marcelle!"  the  old  woman  cried,  and  her 
harsh  voice  for  the  first  time  had  in  it  a  quiver 
of  latent  passion. 

"The  evil  which  you  wrought  that  night," 
Marcelle  went  on  slowly,  "shall  not  find  its 
echo  now.  I  was  really  a  fool  then.  Such 
monsters  as  you  had  never  been  within  my 
ken." 

"Silence,  you  idiot!"  old  Madame  broke  in, 
throwing  into  her  tone  and  into  her  attitude 
all  the  authority  which  she  knew  so  well  how 
to  exert.  But  Marcelle  would  not  be  silenced. 
She  was  just  one  of  those  weak,  down-trodden 
creatures  who,  when  roused,  are  as  formidable 
in  their  wrath  as  they  are  obstinate  in  their 
purpose.  She  spoke  now  as  if  for  the  past 
twenty  years  she  had  been  longing  for  this  re- 
lief and  the  words  tumbled  out  of  her  mouth 


WOMAN    TO    WOMAN  223 

like  an  avalanche  falls  down  the  side  of  a 
mountain. 

"An  idiot!"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes,  you  are 
right  there,  Madame !  A  dolt  and  a  fool !  but, 
thank  God,  sufficiently  sane  to-night  to  pre- 
vent your  staining  your  hands  with  my  son's 
blood,  as  you  did  with  that  of  his  father.  Had 
I  not  been  a  fool,  should  I  not  have  guessed 
your  purpose  that  night? — then,  too,  you 
wished  to  speak  with  your  son  alone — then  too 
you  wished  to  discuss  the  future  after  you  had 
dragged  him  down  with  you  into  a  morass  of 
debts  and  obligations  which  he  could  not  meet. 
To  satisfy  your  lust  for  pomp,  and  for  show, 
you  made  him  spend  and  borrow,  and  then 
when  the  day  of  reckoning  came " 

"Silence,  Marcelle!" 

"When  the  day  of  reckoning  came,"  Mar- 
celle reiterated  coldly,  "you,  his  mother,  placed 
before  him  the  only  alternative  that  your  dam- 
nable pride  would  allow — a  pistol  which  you, 
yourself,  put  into  his  hand." 

"My  son  preferred  death  to  dishonour,"  old 
Madame  put  in  boldly. 

"At  his  mother's  command,"  the  other  re- 
torted. "Oh!  you  thought  I  did  not  know,  you 
thought  I  did  not  guess.  But — you  remember 
— it  was  midsummer — the  window  was  open 


224  NICOLETTE 

— I  was  down  in  the  garden — I  heard  your 
voice:  'My  son,  there  is  only  one  way  open  for 
a  de  Ventadour!'  I  ran  into  the  house,  I  ran 
up  the  stairs — you  remember? — I  was  on  the 
threshold  when  rang  the  pistol  shot  which  at 
your  bidding  had  ended  his  dear  life." 

"What  I  did  then  is  between  me  and  my  con- 
science  " 

"Perhaps,"  Marcelle  replied,  "but  for  what 
you  do  now,  you  will  answer  to  me.  I  suffered 
once — I  will  not  suffer  again " 

Again  with  that  same  wild  gesture  she 
pushed  her  hair  away  from  her  forehead. 
Nicolette  thought  that  she  was  on  the  point 
of  swooning,  but  her  excitement  gave  her 
strength :  she  pulled  herself  together,  drew  the 
portiere  aside,  opened  the  door,  and  went 
through  into  the  other  room. 

Grandmama  appeared  for  a  moment  unde- 
cided: that  her  pride  had  received  a  severe 
shaking,  there  could  be  no  doubt :  for  once  she 
had  been  routed  in  a  wordy  combat  with  the 
woman  whom  she  affected  to  despise.  But  she 
was  too  arrogant,  too  dictatorial  to  argue, 
where  she  "had  failed  to  command.  Perhaps 
she  knew  that  her  influence  over  Bertrand 
would  not  be  diminished  by  his  mother's  inter- 
ference. She  was  not  ashamed  of  that  dark 


WOMAN    TO    WOMAN  225 

page  in  the  past  history :  her  notions  of  honour, 
and  of  what  was  due  to  the  family  name  were 
not  likely  to  be  modified  by  the  ravings  of  a 
sick  imbecile.  She  was  fond  of  Bertrand  and 
proud  of  him,  but  if  the  cataclysm  which  she 
dreaded  did  eventually  come  about,  she  would 
still  far  sooner  see  him  dead  than  dishonoured. 
A  debtor's  prison  was  no  longer  an  impossibil- 
ity for  a  de  Ventadour ;  the  principles  of  equal- 
ity born  of  that  infamous  Revolution,  and 
fostered  by  that  abominable  Corsican  upstart 
had  not  been  altogether  eliminated  from  the 
laws  of  France  with  the  restoration  of  her 
Bourbon  kings.  Everything  nowadays  was 
possible,  even,  it  seems,  the  revolt  of  weak 
members  of  a  family  against  its  acknowledged 
head. 

Marcelle  had  gone  through  into  the  next 
room  without  caring  whether  her  mother-in- 
law  followed  her  or  not.  Just  as  she  entered 
she  was  heard  to  call  her  son's  name,  tenderly, 
and  as  if  in  astonishment.  Old  Madame  then 
took  a  step  forward  and  peeped  through  the 
door.  Then  she  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed. 

"What  an  anti-climax,  eh,  my  good  Mar- 
celle," she  said  with  cool  sarcasm.  "See  what 
a  fool  you  were  to  make  such  a  scene.  While 


226  NICOLETTE 

you  spouted  heroics  at  me  about  pistols  and 
suicide,  the  boy  was  comfortably  asleep.  When 
he  wakes,"  she  added  lightly,  "send  him  to  me, 
and  you  may  chaperon  him  if  you  like.  I 
do  not  see  a  tragedy  in  this  sleeping  prince." 

With  that  she  went:  and  Nicolette  ran  into 
the  next  room.  The  Comtesse  Marcelle  was 
on  the  verge  of  a  collapse.  Nicolette  contrived 
to  undress  her  and  put  her  to  bed.  Bertrand 
did  not  stir.  He  had  drunk  a  couple  of  glasses 
of  wine  and  eaten  some  of  the  cake,  then  ap- 
parently his  head  had  fallen  forward  over  his 
arms,  and  leaning  right  across  the  table  he  had 
fallen  asleep.  The  sound  of  voices  had  not 
roused  him.  He  was  so  tired,  so  tired !  Nico- 
lette, while  she  looked  after  Marcelle,  was  long- 
ing to  undo  Bertrand's  heavy  boots,  and  place 
a  cushion  for  his  head,  and  make  him  lean 
back  in  his  chair.  This  was  such  an  uncom- 
fortable, lonely  house,  lonely  for  every  one 
except  old  Madame,  who  had  Perone  to  look 
after  her.  Marcelle  and  poor  little  Micheline 
looked  after  themselves,  and  Bertrand  only 
had  old  Jasmin.  During  Mile,  de  Peyron- 
Bompar's  visit  last  May,  some  extra  servants 
had  been  got  in  to  make  a  show.  They  had 
been  put  into  smart  liveries  for  the  time  being, 
but  had  since  gone  away  again.  It  was  all 


WOMANTOWOMAN  227 

a  very  dreary  homecoming  for  Tan-tan,  and 
Nicolette,  who  longed  to  look  after  his  creature 
comforts,  was  forced  to  go  away  before  she 
could  do  anything  for  him. 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  kissed  and  thanked 
her.  She  assured  her  that  she  felt  well  and 
strong.  Perone,  though  dour  and  repellent, 
would  come  and  see  to  her  presently,  and 
Micheline  slept  in  a  room  close  by.  Between 
them  they  would  look  after  Bertrand  when  he 
woke  from  this  long  sleep.  The  supper  ordered 
for  two  was  still  there.  Jasmin  would  see  to 
it  that  Bertrand  had  all  that  he  wanted. 

A  little  reassured,  Nicolette  went  away  at 
last,  promising  to  come  again  the  next  day. 
Micheline  accompanied  her  as  far  as  the  main 
door :  the  girl  had  said  absolutely  nothing  dur- 
ing the  long  and  painful  scene  which  had  put 
before  her  so  grim  a  picture  of  the  past:  she 
was  so  self-centred,  so  reserved,  that  not  even 
to  Nicolette  did  she  reveal  what  she  had  felt: 
only  she  clung  more  closely  than  even  before 
to  the  friend  whom  she  loved:  and  when  the 
two  girls  finally  said  "good  night"  to  one  an- 
other they  remained  for  a  long  time  clasped  in 
one  another's  arms. 

"Bertrand  will  be  all  right  now,"  Nicolette 
whispered  in  the  end,  "I  don't  think  old  Ma- 


<228  NICOLETTE 

dame  will  want  to  see  him,  and  he  is  so  tired 
that  he  will  not  even  think.    But  do  not  leave 
him  too  much  alone,  Micheline.    Promise!" 
And  Micheline  promised. 


CHAPTER  XI 

GREY  DAWN 

STRANGE  that  it  should  all  have  hap- 
pened in  the  grey  dawn  of  a  cold  winter's 
morning.  Nicolette,  when  she  came  home 
afterwards  and  thought  it  all  out,  marvelled 
whether  the  grey  sky,  the  muffled  cadence  of 
the  trees,  the  mysterious  pallidity  of  the  woods 
were  a  portent  of  the  future.  And  yet  if  it 
had  to  be  done  all  over  again,  she  would  not 
have 'acted  differently,  and  minute  by  minute, 
hour  by  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  destiny  had  guided 
her — or  God's  hand,  perhaps!  Oh,  surely  it 
was  God's  hand. 

She  rose  early  because  she  had  passed  a  rest- 
less, miserable  night,  also  her  head  ached  and 
she  longed  for  fresh  air.  It  was  still  dark,  but 
Margai  was  astir,  and  a  bright  fire  was  blazing 
in  the  kitchen  when  Nicolette  came  down.  She 
was  not  hungry,  but  to  please  Margai  she 
drank  some  warm  milk  and  ate  the  home-made 
bread,  and  when  the  cold  morning  light  first 

229 


£30  M  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

peeped  in  through  the  open  window,  she  set 
out  for  a  walk. 

She  went  down  the  terraced  gradients  into 
the  valley,  and  turned  to  wander  up  the  river 
bank,  keeping  her  shawl  closely  wrapped 
around  her  shoulders,  as  it  was  very  cold.  The 
Leze,  swelled  by  the  early  winter's  rains,  tossed 
and  tumbled  in  its  bed  with  fretful  turbulence. 
The  snow  lay  deep  in  untidy  little  heaps  in 
all  sorts  of  unexpected  nooks  and  crannies,  but 
the  smooth  surfaces  of  the  boulders  were  shiny 
with  dewy  frost  and  the  blades  of  the  rough 
grass  were  heavy  with  moisture. 

The  air  was  very  still,  and  slowly  the  silvery 
dawn  crept  up  behind  the  canopy  of  clouds, 
and  transformed  it  into  a  neutral  tinted  veil 
that  hung  loosely  over  the  irregular  heights  of 
Luberon  and  concealed  the  light  that  lay  be- 
yond. One  by  one  the  terraced  slopes  emerged 
from  the  pall  of  night,  and  the  moist  blades  of 
grass  turned  to  strings  of  tiny  diamonds.  A 
pallid  argent  hue  lay  over  mountain  and  valley, 
and  even-  leaf  of  every  tree  became  a  looking- 
glass  that  mirrored  the  colourless  opalescence 
of  the  sky. 

When  Nicolette  started  out  for  this  early 
morning  walk  she  had  no  thought  of  meeting 


GREYDAWN  231 

Bertrand.  Indeed  she  had  no  thought  of  any- 
thing beyond  a  desire  to  be  alone,  and  to  still 
the  restlessness  which  had  kept  her  awake  all 
night.  Anon  she  reached  the  pool  and  the 
great  boulder  that  marked  the  boundary  of 
Paul  et  Virginie's  island,  and  she  came  to  a 
halt  beside  the  carob  tree  on  the  spot  hallowed 
by  all  the  cherished  memories  of  the  past. 

And  suddenly  she  saw  Bertrand. 

He  too  had  wandered  along  the  valley  by 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  Nicolette  felt  that 
it  was  her  intense  longing  for  him  that  had 
brought  him  hither  to  this  land  of  yore. 

How  it  all  came  about  she  could  not  have 
told  you.  Bertrand  looked  as  if  he  had  not 
slept:  his  eyes  were  ringed  with  purple,  he 
was  hatless,  and  his  hair  clung  dishevelled  and 
moist  against  his  forehead.  Nicolette  led  the 
way  to  the  old  olive  tree,  and  there  they  stood 
together  for  awhile,  and  she  made  him  tell  her 
all  about  himself.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  it 
hurt  him  to  speak  at  all,  but  gradually  his  re- 
serve appeared  to  fall  away  from  him:  he 
talked  more  and  more  freely!  he  spoke  of 
his  love  for  Rixende,  how  it  had  sprung  into 
being  at  first  sight  of  her:  he  spoke  of  the 
growth  of  his  love  through  days  of  ardour  and 
nights  of  longing,  when,  blind  to  all  save  the 


232  NICOLETTE 

beauty  of  her,  he  would  have  laid  down  his  life 
to  hold  her  in  his  arms.  He  also  spoke  of  that 
awful  day  of  humiliation  and  of  misery  when 
he  dragged  himself  on  his  knees  at  her  feet  like 
an  abject  beggar  imploring  one  crumb  of  pity, 
and  saw  his  love  spurned,  his  ideal  shattered, 
and  his  father's  shame  flung  into  his  face  like  a 
soiled  rag. 

What  he  had  been  unable  to  say  to  his  mother 
he  appeared  to  speak  of  with  real  relief  to 
Nicolette.  He  seemed  like  a  man  groaning 
under  a  heavy  load,  who  is  gradually  being 
eased  of  his  burden.  He  owned  that  for  hours 
after  that  terrible  day  he  had  been  a  prey  to 
black  despair:  it  was  only  the  thought  of  his 
father's  disgrace  and  of  his  mother's  grief  that 
kept  him  from  the  contemplation  of  suicide. 
But  his  career  was  ended:  soon  those  harpies, 
who  were  counting  on  his  wealthy  marriage  to 
exact  their  pound  of  flesh  from  him,  would  fall 
on  him  like  a  cloud  of  locusts,  and  to  the  sorrow 
in  his  heart  would  be  added  the  dishonour  of 
his  name.  His  happiness  had  fled  on  the  wings 
of  disappointment  and  disillusion. 

"The  Rixende  whom  I  loved,"  he  said, 
"never  existed.  She  was  just  a  creation  of 
my  own  brain,  born  of  a  dream.  The  woman 
who  jeered  at  me  because  I  loved  her  and  had 


GREYDAWN  233 

nothing  to  offer  her  but  my  love,  was  a  stranger 
whom  I  had  never  known." 

Was  it  at  that  precise  moment  that  the 
thought  took  shape  in  her  mind,  or  had  it  al- 
ways been  there?  Always?  When  she  used 
to  run  after  him  and  thrust  her  baby  hand  into 
his  palm?  Or  when  she  gazed  up-stream,  pre- 
tending that  the  Leze  was  the  limitless  ocean, 
on  which  never  a  ship  appeared  to  take  her 
and  Tan-tan  away  from  their  island  of  bliss? 
All  the  dreams  of  her  girlhood  came  floating, 
like  pale,  ghostlike  visions,  before  Nicolette's 
mind ;  dreams  when  she  wandered  hand  in  hand 
with  Tan-tan  up  the  valley  and  the  birds 
around  her  sang  a  chorus:  "He  loves  thee, 
passionately!"  Dreams  when  he  was  gay  and 
happy,  and  they  would  laugh  together  and  sing 
till  the  mountain  peaks  gave  echo  to  their  joy! 
Dreams  when,  wearied  or  sad,  he  would  pillow 
his  head  on  her  breast,  and  allow  her  to  stroke 
his  hair,  and  to  whisper  soft  words  of  comfort, 
or  sing  to  him  his  favourite  songs. 

Those  dream  visions  had  long  since  receded 
into  forgetfulness,  dispelled  by  the  masterful 
hand  of  a  beautiful  woman  with  gentian-blue 
eyes  and  a  heart  of  stone.  Was  this  the  hour 
to  recall  them  from  never-never  land?  to  let 
them  float  once  more  before  her  mind  ?  and  was 


234  N  I  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

this  the  hour  to  lend  an  ear  to  the  sweet  insidi- 
ous voice  that  whispered:  "Why  not?"  even 
on  this  cold  winter's  morning,  when  a  pall  of 
grey  monotone  lay  over  earth  and  sky,  when 
the  winter  wind  soughed  drearily  through  the 
trees,  and  every  bird-song  was  stilled? 

Is  there  a  close  time  for  love?  Perhaps. 
But  there  is  none  for  that  sweet  and  gentle 
pity  which  is  the  handmaid  of  the  compelling 
Master  of  the  Universe.  The  sky  might  be 
grey,  the  flowers  dead  and  the  birds  still,  but 
Nicolette's  heart  whispered  to  her  that  Tan-tan 
was  in  pain;  he  had  been  hurt  in  his  love,  in 
his  pride,  in  that  which  he  held  dearer  than 
everything  in  life:  the  honour  of  his  name. 
And  she,  Nicolette,  had  it  in  her  power  to 
shield  him,  his  honour  and  his  pride,  whilst  in 
her  heart  there  was  such  an  infinity  of  love, 
that  the  wounds  which  he  had  endured  would 
be  healed  by  its  magical  power. 

How  it  came  about  she  knew  not.  He  had 
spoken  and  he  was  tired:  shame  and  sorrow 
had  brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden  she  put  out  her  arms  and  drew  his  head 
down  upon  her  breast.  Like  a  mother  croon- 
ing over  her  sick  baby,  she  soothed  and  com- 
forted him:  and  words  of  love  poured  out 
from  her  heart  as  nectar  from  an  hallowed 


GREYDAWN  235 

vessel,  and  in  her  eyes  there  glowed  a  light  of 
such  perfect  love  and  such  sublime  surrender, 
that  he,  dazed  at  first,  not  understanding, 
could  but  listen  in  silence,  and  let  this  marvel- 
lous ray  of  hope  slowly  filtrate  through  the 
darkness  of  his  despair. 

"Nicolette,"  he  cried  the  moment  he  could 
realise  what  it  was  she  was  saying,  "do  you 
really  love  me  enough  to " 

But  she  quickly  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"Ask  me  no  question,  Tan-tan,"  she  said. 
"I  have  always  loved  you,  neither  more  nor 
less — just  loved  you  always — and  now  that 
you  are  in  trouble  and  really  need  me,  how 
can  you  ask  if  I  love  you  enough?" 

"Your  father  will  never  permit  it,  Nico- 
lette," he  said  soberly  after  a  while. 

"He  will  permit  it,"  she  rejoined  simply, 
"because  now  I  should  die  if  anything  were 
to  part  us." 

"If  only  I  could  be  worthy  of  your  love, 
little  one,"  he  murmured  ruefully. 

"Hush,  my  dear,"  she  whispered  in  reply. 
"In  love  no  one  is  either  worthy  or  unworthy. 
If  you  love  me,  then  you  have  given  me  such 
a  priceless  treasure  that  I  should  not  even 
envy  the  angels  up  in  heaven." 

"If  I  love  you,  sweetheart!"  he  sighed,  and 


236  NICOLETTE 

a  sharp  pang  of  remorse  shot  through  his  heart. 

But  she  was  content  even  with  this  sem- 
blance of  love.  Never  of  late,  in  her  happiest 
dreams,  had  she  thought  it  possible  that  she 
and  Tan-tan  would  ever  really  belong  to  one 
another.  Oh!  she  had  no  illusions  as  to  the 
present :  the  image  of  that  blue-eyed  little  fiend 
had  not  been  wholly  eradicated  from  his  heart, 
but  so  long  as  she  had  him  she  would  love  him 
so  much,  so  much,  that  in  time  he  would  for- 
get everything  save  her  who  made  him  happy. 

They  talked  for  awhile  of  ihe  future :  she 
would  not  see  that  in  his  heart  he  was  ashamed 
— ashamed  of  her  generosity  and  of  his  own 
weakness  for  accepting  it.  But  she  had  found 
the  right  words,  and  he  had  been  in  such  black 
despair  that  this  glorious  future  which  she  held 
out  before  him  was  like  a  vision  of  paradise, 
and  he  was  young  and  human,  and  did  not  turn 
his  back  on  his  own  happiness.  Then,  as  time 
was  getting  on,  they  remembered  that  there 
was  a  world  besides  themselves:  a  world  to 
which  they  would  now  have  to  return  and  which 
they  would  have  to  face.  It  was  no  use  restart- 
ing a  game  of  "Let's  pretend!"  on  their  desert 
island.  A  ship  had  come  in  sight  on  the  limit- 
less ocean,  and  they  must  make  ready  to  go 
back. 


GREY    DAWN  237 

Hand  in  hand  they  wandered  down  the  val- 
ley. It  was  just  like  one  of  those  pictures  of 
which  Nicolette  had  dreamed.  She  and  Tan- 
tan  alone  together,  the  Leze  murmuring  at 
their  feet,  the  soughing  of  the  trees  making 
sweet  melody  as  they  walked.  Way  up  in  the 
sky  a  thin  shaft  of  brilliant  light  had  rent 
the  opalescent  veil  and  tinged  the  heights  of 
Luberon  with  gold.  The  warm  sun  of  Prov- 
ence would  have  its  way.  It  tore  at  that  drab 
grey  veil,  tore  and  tore,  until  the  rent  grew 
wider  and  the  firmament  over  which  he  reigned 
was  translucent  and  blue.  The  leaves  on  the 
trees  mirrored  the  azure  of  the  sky,  the  moun- 
tain stream  gurgled  and  whispered  with  a 
sound  like  human  laughter,  and  from  a  leafy 
grove  of  winter  oak  a  pair  of  pigeons  rose  and 
flew  away  over  the  valley,  and  disappeared  in 
the  nebulous  ether  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FATHER 

r  INHERE  was  the  natural  longing  to  keep 
A  one's  happiness  to  oneself  just  for  a  little 
while,  and  Nicolette  decided  that  it  would  be 
better  for  Bertrand  to  wait  awhile  before  com- 
ing over  to  the  mas,  until  she  herself  had  had 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  her  father. 
For  the  moment  she  felt  that  she  was  walking 
on  clouds,  and  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  de- 
scend to  earth  sufficiently  to  deceive  both  father 
and  Margai.  Nor  did  she  deceive  either  of 
them. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  child  ?"  Jaume 
Deydier  said  after  midday  dinner,  when  Nico- 
lette ran  out  of  the  room  singing  and  laugh- 
ing in  response  to  nothing  at  all. 

And  Margai  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She 
could  not  think.  Deydier  suggested  that  per- 
haps Ameyric  .  .  .  Eh,  what?  Girls  did  not 
know  their  own  hearts  until  a  man  came  along 
and  opened  the  little  gate  with  his  golden  key. 
Margai  shrugged  her  shoulders  again :  this  time 

238 


FATHER  239 

out  of  contempt  for  a  man's  mentality.  It  was 
not  Ameyric  of  a  surety  who  had  the  power  to 
make  Nicolette  sing  and  laugh  as  she  had  not 
done  for  many  a  month,  or  to  bring  that  glow 
into  her  cheeks  and  the  golden  light  into  her 
eyes.  No,  no,  it  was  not  Ameyric  1 

Then  as  the  afternoon  wore  on  and  the 
shades  of  evening  came  creeping  round  the  cor- 
ners of  the  cosy  room,  Jaume  Deydier  sat  in 
his  chair  beside  the  hearth  in  which  great,  hard 
olive  logs  blazed  cheerfully.  He  was  in  a  soft 
and  gentle  mood.  And  Nicolette  told  him 
all  that  had  happened  ...  to  Bertrand  and 
to  her. 

Jaume  Deydier  heard  the  story  of  Mme.  de 
Mont-Pahon's  will,  and  of  Rixende's  cruelty, 
with  a  certain  grim  satisfaction.  He  was  sorry 
for  the  Comtesse  Marcelle — very  sorry — but 
the  blow  would  fall  most  heavily  on  old  Ma- 
dame, and  for  once  she  would  see  all  her 
schemes  tumbling  about  her  ears  like  a  house 
of  cards. 

Then  Nicolette  knelt  down  beside  him  and 
told  him  everything.  Her  walk  this  morning, 
her  meeting  with  Bertrand :  her  avowal  of  love 
and  offer  of  marriage. 

"It  came  from  me,  father  dear,"  she  said 
softly,  "Bertrand  would  never  have  daredj* 


240  NICOLETTE 

Deydier  had  not  put  in  one  word  while  his 
daughter  spoke.  He  did  not  even  look  at  her, 
only  stared  into  the  fire.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished he  said  quietly: 

"And  now,  little  one,  all  that  you  can  do 
is  to  forget  all  about  this  morning's  walk  and 
what  has  passed  between  you  and  M.  le  Comte 
de  Ventadour!" 

"Father!" 

"Understand  me,  my  dear  once  and  for  all," 
Deydier  went  on  quite  unmoved;  "never  with 
my  consent  will  you  marry  one  of  that  brood." 

Nicolette  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two. 
She  had  expected  opposition,  of  course.  She 
knew  her  father  and  his  dearly-loved  scheme 
that  she  should  marry  young  Barnadou:  she 
also  knew  that  deep  down  in  his  heart  there 
was  a  bitter  grudge  against  old  Madame. 
What  this  grudge  was  she  did  not  know,  but 
she  had  complete  faith  in  her  father's  love, 
and  in  any  case  she  would  be  fighting  for  her 
happiness.  So  she  put  her  arms  around  him 
and  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  in 
that  cajoling  manner  which  she  had  always 
found  irresistible. 

"Father,"  she  whispered,  "you  are  speaking 
about  my  happiness." 


FATHER  241 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  dull  sigh  of  weari- 
ness, "I  am." 

"Of  my  life,  perhaps." 

"Nicolette,"  the  father  cried,  with  a  world 
of  anxiety,  of  reproach,  of  horror  in  his  tone. 

But  Nicolette  knelt  straight  before  him  now, 
sitting  on  her  heels,  her  hands  clasped  before 
her,  her  eyes  fixed  quite  determinedly  on  his 
face. 

"I  love  Bertrand,  father,"  she  said  simply, 
"and  he  loves  me." 

'My  child " 

'He  loves  me,"  Nicolette  reiterated  with 
firm  conviction.  "A  woman  is  never  mistaken 
over  that,  you  know." 

"A  woman  perhaps,  my  dear,"  the  father 
retorted  gently,  and  passed  a  hand  that  shook 
a  little  over  her  hair:  "but  you  are  such  a  child, 
my  little  Nicolette.  You  have  never  been 
away  from  our  mountains  and  our  skies,  where 
God's  world  is  pure  and  simple.  What  do 
you  know  of  evil?" 

"There  is  no  evil  in  Bertrand's  love  for  me," 
she  protested. 

"Bah!  there  is  evil  in  all  the  de  Ventadours. 
They  are  all  tainted  with  the  mania  for  show 
and  for  wealth.  And  now  that  they  are  bank- 
rupt in  pocket  as  well  as  in  honour,  they  hope 


242  NICOLETTE 

to  regild  their  stained  escutcheon  with  your 
money " 

"That  is  false!"  Nicolette  broke  in  vehe- 
mently, "no  one  at  the  chateau  knows  that  Ber- 
trand  and  I  love  one  another.  A  few  hours 
ago  he  did  not  know  that  I  cared  for  him." 

"A  few  hours  ago  he  knew  that  his  father's 
fate  was  at  his  door.  He  is  up  to  his  eyes  in 
debt;  nothing  can  save  even  the  roof  over  his 
head ;  his  mother,  his  sister  and  that  old  harpy 
his  grandmother  have  nothing  ahead  of  them 
but  beggary.  Then  suddenly  you  come  to 
him  with  sweet  words  prompted  by  your  dear 
kind  heart,  and  that  man,  tottering  on  the 
brink  of  an  awful  precipice,  sees  a  prop  that 
will  save  him  from  stumbling  headlong  down. 
The  Deydier  money,  he  says  to  himself,  why 
not  indeed?  True  I  shall  have  to  stoop  and 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  vulgar  peasant,  but 
I  can't  have  the  money  without  the  wife,  and 
so  I'll  take  her,  and  when  I  have  got  her,  I  can 
return  to  my  fine  friends  in  Paris,  to  the  Court 
of  Versailles  and  all  the  gaieties,  and  she  poor 
fool  can  stay  at  home  and  nurse  my  mother  or 
attend  to  the  whims  of  old  Madame ;  and  if  she 
frets  and  repines  and  eats  out  her  heart  with 
loneliness  down  at  my  old  owl's  nest  in  Prov- 


FATHER  24S 

ence,  well  then  I  shall  be  rid  of  her  all  the 
sooner.  ..." 

"Father!"  Nicolette  cried  with  sudden  pas- 
sionate intensity  which  she  made  no  attempt  to 
check.  "What  wrong  has  Bertrand  done  to 
you  that  you  should  be  willing  to  sacrifice  my 
happiness  to  your  revenge?" 

A  harsh  laugh  came  from  Jaume  Deydier's 
choking  throat. 

"Revenge  ?"  he  exclaimed.  And  then  again : 
"Revenge?" 

"Yes,  revenge!"  Nicolette  went  on  with 
glowing  eyes  and  flaming  cheeks.  "Oh,  I 
know !  I  know !  There  is  a  dark  page  somewhere 
in  our  family  history  connected  with  the 
chateau,  and  because  of  that — because  of 
that " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob.  She  was  crouch- 
ing beside  the  hearth  at  her  father's  feet,  and 
for  a  moment  he  looked  down  at  her  as  if  en- 
tirely taken  aback  by  her  passionate  protest. 
Life  had  always  gone  on  so  smoothly  at  the 
mas,  that  Jaume  Deydier  had  until  now  never 
realised  that  the  motherless  baby  whom  he  had 
carried  about  in  his  arms  had  become  a  woman 
with  a  heart,  and  a  mind  and  passions  of  her 
own.  It  had  never  struck  him  that  his  daugh- 
ter— little  Nicolette  with  the  bright  eyes  and 


244  NICOLETTE 

the  merry  laugh,  the  child  that  toddled  after 
him,  obedient  and  loving — would  one  day  wish 
to  frame  her  destiny  apart  from  him,  apart 
from  her  old  home. 

A  child !  A  child !  He  had  always  thought  of 
her  as  a  child — then  as  a  growing  girl  who 
would  marry  Ameyric  B  amadou  one  day,  and 
in  due  course  present  her  husband  with  a  fine 
boy  or  two  and  perhaps  a  baby  girl  that  would 
be  the  grandfather's  joy! 

But  this  girl! — this  woman  with  the  flam- 
ing eyes  in  which  glowed  passion,  reproach, 
an  indomitable  will;  this  woman  whose  voice, 
whose  glance  expressed  the  lust  of  a  fight  for 
her  love  and  her  happiness ! — was  this  his  Nico- 
lette? 

Ah!  here  was  a  problem,  the  like  of  which 
had  never  confronted  Jaume  Deydier's  even 
existence  before  now.  How  he  would  deal 
with  it  he  did  not  yet  know.  He  was  a  silent 
man  and  not  fond  of  talking,  and,  after  her 
passionate  outburst,  Nicolette,  too,  had  lapsed 
into  silence.  She  still  crouched  beside  her  fa- 
ther's chair,  squatting  on  her  heels,  and  gazing 
into  the  fire.  Deydier  stroked  her  soft  brown 
hair  with  a  tender  hand.  He  loved  the  child 
more  than  anything  in  the  whole  world.  To 
her  happiness  he  would  have  sacrificed  every- 


FATHER  245 

thing  including  his  life,  but  in  his  own  mind 
he  was  absolutely  convinced  that  Bertrand  de 
Ventadour  had  only  sought  her  for  her  money, 
and  that  nothing  but  sorrow  would  come  of 
this  unequal  marriage — if  the  marriage  was  al- 
lowed to  take  place,  which,  please  God,  it  never 
would  whilst  he,  Deydier,  was  alive.  .  .  .  But 
as  he  himself  was  a  man  whose  mind  worked 
with  great  deliberation,  he  thought  that  time 
and  quietude  would  act  more  potently  than 
words  on  Nicolette's  present  mood.  He  was 
quite  sure  that  at  any  rate  nothing  would  be 
gained  at  this  moment  by  further  talk.  She 
was  too  overwrought,  too  recently  under  the 
influence  of  Bertrand  to  listen  to  reason  now. 
Time  would  show.  Time  would  tell.  Time 
and  Nicolette's  own  sound  sense  and  pride. 
So  Deydier  sat  on  in  his  arm-chair,  and  said 
nothing,  and  presently  he  asked  his  girl  to  get 
him  his  pipe,  which  she  did.  She  lighted  it  for 
him,  and  as  she  stood  there  so  close  to  him  with 
the  lighted  tinder  in  her  hand,  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  dry,  and  that  the  glow  had  died  out 
of  her  cheeks.  He  pulled  at  his  pipe  in  a 
moody,  abstracted  way,  and  fell  to  meditating 
—as  he  so  often  did— on  the  past.  There  was  a 
tragedy  in  his  life  connected  with  those  Ven- 
tadours.  He  had  never  spoken  of  it  to  any 


246  NICOLETTE 

one  since  the  day  of  his  marriage,  not  even 
to  old  Margai,  who  knew  all  about  it,  and  he 
had  sworn  to  himself  at  one  time  that  he  would 
never  tell  Nicolette. 

But  now 

So  deeply  had  he  sunk  in  meditation  that  he 
did  not  notice  that  Nicolette  presently  went 
out  of  the  room. 

Margai  brought  in  the  lamp  an  hour  later. 

"I  did  not  want  to  disturb  you,"  she  said  as 
she  set  it  on  the  table,  "but  it  is  getting  late 
now." 

"Well?"  she  went  on  after  awhile,  seeing 
that  Deydier  made  no  comment,  that  his  pipe 
had  gone  out,  and  that  he  was  staring  moodily 
into  the  fire.  Even  now  he  gave  her  no  reply, 
although  she  rattled  the  silver  on  the  side- 
board so  as  to  attract  his  attention.  Finally, 
she  knelt  down  in  front  of  the  hearth  and  made 
a  terrific  clatter  with  the  fire-irons.  Even 
then,  Jaume  Deydier  only  said:  "Well?"  too. 

"Has  the  child  told  you  anything?"  Margai 
went  on  tartly.  She  had  never  been  kept  out 
of  family  councils  before  and  had  spent  the  last 
hour  in  anticipation  of  being  called  into  the 
parlour. 


FATHER  2  i7 

"Why,  what  should  she  tell  me?'y  Deydier 
retorted  with  exasperating  slowness. 

"Tiens!  that  she  is  in  love  with  Bertrand  de 
Ventadour,  and  wants  to  marry  him." 

Deydier  gave  a  startled  jump  as  if  a  pistol 
shot  had  rung  in  his  ear,  and  his  pipe  fell  with 
a  clatter  to  the  ground. 

"Nicolette  in  love  with  Bertrand,"  he  cried 
with  well-feigned  astonishment.  "Whoever 
told  thee  such  nonsense?" 

"No  one,"  the  old  woman  replied  dryly.  "I 
guessed." 

Then  as  Deydier  relapsed  into  moody 
silence,  she  added  irritably : 

"Don't  deny  it,  Mossou  Deydier.  The  child 
told  you." 

"I  don't  deny  it,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"That  never  while  I  live  would  she  marry  a 
de  Ventadour." 

"Hm!"  was  the  only  comment  made  on  this 
by  Margai*.  And  after  awhile  she  added : 

"And  where  is  the  child  now?" 

"I  thought,"  Deydier  replied,  "that  she  was 
in  the  kitchen  with  thee." 

"I  have  not  seen  her  these  two  hours  past." 

"She  is  not  in  her  room?" 

"Xo!" 


248  NICOLETTE 

"Then,  maybe,  she  is  in  the  garden." 

"Maybe.     It  is  a  fine  night." 

There  the  matter  dropped  for  the  moment. 
It  was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  Nicolette  to 
run  out  into  the  garden  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
or  evening,  and  to  stay  out  late,  and  Deydier 
was  not  surprised  that  the  child  should  have 
wished  to  be  let  in  peace  for  awhile.  Margai 
went  back  to  her  kitchen  to  see  about  supper, 
and  Deydier  lighted  a  second  pipe :  a  very  un- 
usual thing  for  him  to  do.  At  seven  o'clock 
Margai  put  her  head  in  through  the  door. 

"The  child  is  not  in  yet,"  she  said  laconically, 
"and  she  is  not  in  the  garden.  I  have  been 
round  to  see." 

"Didst  call  for  her,  Margai?"  Deydier 
asked. 

"Aye!  I  called  once  or  twice.  Then 
I  stood  at  the  gate  thinking  I  would  see  her 
go  up  the  road.  She  should  be  in  by  now.  It 
has  started  to  rain." 

Deydier  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Raining,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  the  child  out 
at  this  hour?  Why  didst  not  come  sooner, 
Margai,  and  tell  me?" 

"She  is  often  out  later  than  this,"  was  Mar- 
gai's  reply.  "But  she  usually  comes  in  when 
it  rains." 


FATHER  24d 

"Did  she  take  a  cloak  with  her  when  she 
went?" 

"She  has  her  shawl.  Maybe,"  the  old  woman 
added  after  a  slight  pause,  "she  went  to  meet 
him  somewhere." 

To  this  suggestion  Deydier  made  no  reply, 
but  it  seemed  to  Margai  that  he  muttered  an 
oath  between  his  teeth,  which  was  a  very  un- 
usual thing  for  Mossou  Jaume  to  do.  With- 
out saying  another  word,  however,  he  stalked 
out  of  the  parlour,  and  presently  Margai  heard 
his  heavy  footstep  crossing  the  corridor  and  the 
vestibule,  then  the  opening  and  the  closing  of 
the  front  door. 

She  shook  her  head  dolefully  while  she  be- 
gan to  lay  the  cloth  for  supper. 

Jaume  Deydier  had  thrown  his  coat  across 
his  shoulders,  thrust  his  cap  on  his  head  and 
picked  up  a  stout  stick  and  a  storm  lanthorn, 
then  he  went  down  into  the  valley.  It  was 
raining  now,  a  cold,  unpleasant  rain  mixed 
with  snow,  and  the  tramontane  blew  merciless- 
ly from  way  over  Vaucluse.  Deydier  mut- 
tered a  real  oath  this  time,  and  turned  up  the 
road  in  the  direction  of  the  chateau.  It  was 
very  dark  and  the  rain  beat  all  around  his 
shoulders:  but  when  he  thought  of  Bertrand  de 


250  NICOLETTE 

Ventadour,  he  gripped  his  stick  more  tightly, 
and  he  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  the  wet  or  the 
cold. 

He  had  reached  the  sharp  bend  in  the  road 
where  the  stony  bridle-path,  springing  at  a 
right  angle,  led  up  to  the  gates  of  the  chateau, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  turning  up  the 
path  when  he  heard  his  name  called  close  be- 
hind him: 

"Hey,  Mossou  Deydier !    Is  that  you?" 

He  turned  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Perone,  old  Madame's  confidential  maid 
— a  person  whom  he  could  not  abide. 

"Are  you  going  up  to  the  chateau,  Mossou 
Deydier?"  the  woman  went  on  with  an  ugly 
note  of  obsequiousness  in  her  harsh  voice. 

"Yes,"  Deydier  replied  curtly,  and  would 
have  gone  on,  on  his  way,  but  Perone  suddenly 
took  hold  of  him  by  the  coat. 

"Mossou  Deydier,"  she  said  pitiably,  "it 
would  be  only  kind  to  a  poor  old  woman,  if 
you  would  let  her  walk  with  you.  It  is  so 
lonely  and  so  dark.  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Manosque.  I  waited  there  for  awhile, 
thinking  the  rain  would  give  over.  It  was 
quite  fine  when  I  left  home  directly  after  din- 
ner." 

Deydier  let  her  talk  on.     He  could  not  bear 


FATHER  251 

the  woman,  but  he  was  man  enough  not  to  let 
her  struggle  on  in  the  dark  behind  him,  whilst 
he  had  his  lanthorn  to  guide  his  own  footsteps 
up  the  uneven  road;  and  so  they  walked  on 
side  by  side  for  a  minute  or  two,  until  Perone 
said  suddenly: 

"I  hope  Mademoiselle  Nicolette  has  reached 
home  by  now.  I  told  her— 

"You  saw  Mademoiselle  Nicolette?"  Dey- 
dier  broke  in  harshly,  "where?" 

"Just  above  La  Bastide,  Mossou  Deydier," 
the  woman  replied.  "You  know  where  she 
and  Mossou  le  Comte  used  to  fish  when  they 
were  children.  It  was  raining  hard  already 
and  I  told  her " 

But  Deydier  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  fur- 
ther. Without  any  ceremony,  or  word  of  ex- 
cuse, he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  rapidly 
down  the  road,  swinging  his  lanthorn  and  grip- 
ping his  stick,  leaving  Perone  to  go  or  come, 
or  stand  still  as  she  pleased. 

Moodiness  and  wrath  had  suddenly  given 
place  to  a  sickening  feeling  of  anxiety.  The 
rain  beat  straight  into  his  face  as  he  turned 
his  steps  up  the  valley,  keeping  close  to  the 
river  bank,  but  he  did  not  feel  either  the  wind 
or  the  rain:  in  the  dim  circle  of  light  which  the 
lanthorn  threw  before  him  he  seemed  to  see  his 


252  NICOLETTE 

little  Nicolette,  grief -stricken,  distraught,  be- 
side that  pool  that  would  murmur  insidious, 
poisoned  words,  promises  of  peace  and  forget- 
fulness.  And  at  sight  of  this  spectral  vision 
a  cry  like  that  of  a  wounded  beast  came  from 
the  father's  overburdened  heart. 

"Not  again,  my  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "not 
again!  I  could  not  bear  it!  Faith  in  Thee 
would  go,  and  I  should  blaspheme!" 

He  saw  her  just  as  he  had  pictured  her, 
crouching  against  the  large  boulder  that  shel- 
tered her  somewhat  against  the  wind  and  rain. 
Just  above  her  head  the  heavy  branches  of  an 
old  carob  tree  swayed  under  the  breath  of  the 
tramontane:  at  her  feet  the  waters  of  the  Leze, 
widening  at  this  point  into  a  pool,  lapped  the 
edge  of  her  skirt  and  of  the  shawl  which  had 
slipped  from  her  shoulders. 

She  was  not  entirely  conscious,  and  the  wet 
on  her  cheeks  did  not  wholly  come  from  the 
rain.  Jaume  Deydier  was  a  big,  strong  man, 
he  was  also  a  silent  one.  After  one  exclama- 
tion of  heart-broken  grief  and  of  horror,  he  had 
gathered  his  little  girl  in  his  arms,  wrapped  his 
own  coat  round  her,  and,  holding  on  to  the 
lanthorn  at  the  same  time,  he  set  out  for  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MAN  TO  MAN 

JAUME  DE  YDIER  did  not  say  anything 
to  Nicolette  that  evening.  After  he  had 
deposited  her  on  her  bed  and  handed  her  over 
to  Margai  he  knew  that  the  child  would  be  well 
and  safe.  Sleep  and  Margai's  household  rem- 
edies would  help  the  child's  robust  constitution 
to  put  up  a  good  fight. 

And  Nicolette  lay  all  the  evening,  and  half 
the  night,  wide-eyed  and  silent  between  the 
sheets;  quite  quiescent  and  obedient  whenever 
Margai  brought  her  something  warm  to  drink. 
But  she  would  not  eat,  and  when  early  the  next 
morning  Margai  brought  her  some  warm  milk, 
she  looked  as  if  she  had  not  slept.  She  had  a 
little  fever  during  the  night,  but  by  the  morn- 
ing this  had  gone,  only  her  face  looked  white 
and  pinched,  and  her  eyes  looked  preternatu- 
rally  large  with  great  dark  rings  around  them. 

Later  on  in  the  morning  her  father  came  and 
stood  for  a  second  or  two  silently  beside  her 
bed.  Her  eyes  were  closed  when  he  came,  but 

253 


254  N  I  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

presently,  as  if  drawn  by  the  magnetism  of  his 
tender  gaze,  the  heavy  lids  slowly  opened,  and 
she  looked  at  him.  She  looked  so  pale  and  so 
small  in  the  big  bed,  and  there  was  such  a  look 
of  sorrow  around  her  drooping  mouth,  that 
Deydier's  heart  ached  almost  to  the  point  of 
breaking,  and  great  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes 
and  rolled  slowly  down  his  rough  cheeks. 

The  child  drew  a  long  sigh  of  tenderness,  al- 
most of  pity,  and  put  out  her  arms.  He 
gathered  her  to  his  breast,  pillowing  the  dear 
head  against  his  heart,  while  he  could  scarcely 
control  the  heavy  sobs  that  shook  his  powerful 
shoulders,  or  stay  the  tears  that  wetted  her 
curls. 

"My  Nicolette!"  he  murmured  somewhat  in- 
coherently. "My  little  Nicolette,  thou'lt  not 
do  it,  my  little  girl,  not  that — not  that — I 
could  not  bear  it." 

Then  he  laid  her  down  again  upon  the  pil- 
lows, and  kissed  away  the  tears  upon  her 
cheeks. 

"Father,"  she  murmured,  and  fondled  his 
hand  which  she  had  captured,  "you  must  try 
and  forgive  me,  I  was  stupid  and  thoughtless. 
I  ought  to  have  explained  better.  But  I  was 
unhappy,  very  unhappy.  Then  I  don't  know 
how  it  all  happened — I  did  not  look  where  I 


MAN    TO   MAN  255 

was  going,  I  suppose — and  I  stumbled  and  fell 
— it  was  stupid  of  me,"  she  reitemted  with  lov- 
ing humility;  "but  I  forgot  the  time,  the 
weather — everything — I  was  so  unhappy " 

"So  unhappy  that  you  forgot  your  poor  old 
father,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile,  "whose  only 
treasure  you  are  in  this  world." 

"No,  dear,"  she  replied  earnestly.  "I  did 
not  forget  you.  On  the  contrary,  I  thought 
and  thought  about  you,  and  wondered  how  you 
could  be  so  unkind." 

He  gave  a  quick,  weary  sigh. 

"We  won't  speak  about  that  now,  my  child," 
he  said  gently,  "all  you  have  to  do  is  to  get 
well." 

"I  am  well,  dear,"  she  rejoined,  and  as  he 
tried  to  withdraw  his  hand  she  grasped  it  closer 
and  held  it  tightly  against  her  bosom : 

"When  Bertrand  comes,"  she  entreated, 
"will  you  see  him?" 

But  he  only  shook  his  head,  whereupon  she 
let  go  his  hand  and  turned  her  face  away. 
And  he  went  dejectedly  out  of  the  room. 

Bertrand  came  over  to  the  mas  in  the  early 
part  of  the  forenoon.  Vague  hints  dropped  by 
Perone  had  already  alarmed  him,  and  he  spent 


256  NICOLETTE 

a  miserable  evening  and  a  sleepless  night  mar- 
velling what  had  happened. 

As  soon  as  he  returned  from  the  marvellous 
walk  which  had  changed  the  whole  course  of 
his  existence,  he  had  told  his  mother  and  Miche- 
line  first,  then  grandmama,  what  had  hap- 
pened. Marcelle  de  Ventadour,  who,  during 
the  past  four  and  twenty  hours  had  been  in  a 
state  of  prostration,  due  partly  to  sorrow  and 
anxiety  for  her  son,  and  partly  to  the  reaction 
following  on  excitement,  felt  very  much  like 
one  who  has  been  at  death's  door  and  finds  him- 
self unaccountably  alive  again.  She  was  fond 
of  Nicolette  in  a  gentle,  unemotional  way :  she 
knew  that  Deydier  was  very  rich  and  his 
daughter  his  sole  heiress,  and  she  had  none  of 
those  violent  caste  prejudices  which  swayed  old 
Madame's  entire  life ;  moreover,  she  had  never 
been  able  to  endure  Rixende's  petulant  tempers 
and  supercilious  ways.  All  these  facts  con- 
duced to  make  her  contented,  almost  happy,  in 
this  new  turn  of  events. 

Not  so  old  Madame!  Bertrand's  news  at 
first  appeared  to  her  unworthy  of  considera- 
tion: the  boy,  she  argued,  partly  to  herself, 
partly  to  him,  had  been  inveigled  at  a  moment 
when  he  was  too  weak  and  too  wretched  to  de- 
fend himself,  by  a  designing  minx  who  had  a 


MAN    TO   MAX  257 

coronet  and  a  fine  social  position  in  her  mind's 
eye.  The  matter  was  not  worth  talking  about. 
It  just  would  not  be:  that  was  all.  When  she 
found  that  not  only  did  Bertrand  mean  to  go 
through  with  this  preposterous  marriage,  but 
that  he  defended  Nicolette  and  sang  her 
praises  with  passionate  warmth,  she  fell  from 
contempt  into  amazement  and  thence  into 
wrath. 

It  should  not  be!  It  was  preposterous! 
Impossible!  A  Comte  de  Yentadour  marry 
the  descendant  of  a  lacquey !  the  daughter  of  a 
peasant !  It  should  not  be !  not  whilst  she  was 
alive.  Thank  God,  she  still  had  a  few  in- 
fluential friends  in  Paris,  she  would  petition  the 
King  to  forbid  the  marriage. 

"You  would  not  dare "  Bertrand  pro- 
tested vehemently. 

But  old  Madame  only  laughed. 

"Dare?"  she  said  tartly.  "Of  course  I 
should  dare.  I  have  dared  more  than  that  be- 
fore now,  let  me  tell  you,  in  order  to  save  the 
honour  of  the  Yentadours.  That  marriage  can 
not  be,"  she  went  on  determinedly,  "and  if  you 
are  too  foolish  or  too  blind  to  perceive  the  dis- 
grace of  such  a  mesalliance,  then  I  will  apply 
to  the  King.  And  you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  His  Majesty  has  before  now  intervened  on 


258  NICOLETTE 

the  side  of  the  family  when  such  questions  have 
been  on  the  tapis,  and  that  no  officer  of  the 
King's  bodyguard  may  marry  without  the  con- 
sent of  his  sovereign." 

This  Bertrand  knew.  That  archaic  law  was 
one  of  those  petty  tyrannies  in  which  the  heart 
of  a  Bourbon  delighted,  and  was  one  of  the 
first  in  connection  with  his  army  that  Louis 
XVIII  replaced  upon  the  statute  book  of  his 
reconquered  country. 

Bertrand  tried  to  argue  with  old  Madame, 
and  sharp  words  flew  between  these  two,  who 
usually  were  so  entirely  at  one  in  their  thoughts 
and  their  ideals.  But  he  felt  that  he  had  been 
like  a  drowning  man,  and  the  loving,  gentle 
hand  that  had  been  held  out  to  him  at  the  hour 
of  his  greatest  peril  had  become  very  dear. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  Ber- 
trand loved  Nicolette  now  as  passionately  as  he 
had  loved  Rixende  in  the  past,  or  that  the  im- 
age of  one  woman  had  wholly  obliterated  that 
of  the  other :  but  he  was  immensely  grateful  to 
her,  and  whenever  his  memory  dwelt  on  the 
thought  of  that  sweet,  trusting  young  body 
clinging  to  him,  of  those  soft,  delicate  hands 
fondling  his  hair,  of  that  crooning  voice  mur- 
muring sweet  words  of  love  and  surrender,  he 
felt  a  warmth  within  his  heart,  a  longing  for 


MANTOMAN  259 

Nicolette,  different,  yes !  sweeter  than  anything 
he  had  experienced  for  Rixende. 

"When  you  find  yourself  face  to  face  with 
the  alternative  of  giving  up  your  career  or  that 
peasant  wench,  you'll  not  hesitate,  I  presume; 
you,  a  Comte  de  Ventadour!" 

These  were  old  Madame's  parting  words, 
when,  wearied  with  an  argument  that  tended 
nowhere,  Bertrand  finally  kissed  her  hand  and 
bade  her  good  night. 

"Come,  come,"  she  added  more  gently,  "con- 
fess that  you  have  been  weak  and  foolish.  You 
loved  Rixende  de  Peyron-Bompar  until  a 
week  ago.  You  cannot  have  fallen  out  of  love 
and  in  again  in  so  short  a  time.  Have  no  fear, 
my  dear  Bertrand,  an  officer  in  the  King's 
bodyguard,  a  young  man  as  accomplished  as 
yourself  and  with  a  name  like  yours,  has  never 
yet  failed  to  make  a  brilliant  marriage.  There 
are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  come  out 
of  it.  A  little  patience,  and  I'll  warrant  that 
within  three  months  you'll  be  thanking  Heaven 
on  your  knees  that  Rixende  de  Peyron-Bom- 
par was  such  a  fool,  for  you  will  be  leading  to 
the  altar  a  far  richer  heiress  than  she." 

But  Bertrand  now  was  too  tired  to  say  more. 
He  just  kissed  his  grandmother's  hand,  and 


260  NICOLETTE 

with  a  sigh  and  a  weary  smile,  said  enigmatic- 
ally: 

"Perhaps!" 

Then  he  went  out  of  the  room. 

Jaume  Deydier  met  Bertrand  de  Ventadour 
on  the  threshold  of  the  mas. 

"Enter,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  he  said  curtly. 

Bertrand  followed  him  into  the  parlour,  and 
took  the  chair  that  Deydier  offered  him  beside 
the  hearth.  He  inquired  anxiously  after 
Nicolette,  and  the  old  man  told  him  briefly  all 
that  had  happened. 

"And  it  were  best,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  he 
concluded  abruptly,  "if  you  went  back  to  Paris 
after  this.  It  is  not  fair  to  the  child." 

"Not  fair  to  Nicolette!"  Bertrand  ex- 
claimed. "Then  she  has  told  you?" 

"Yes,  she  told  me,"  he  rejoined  coldly,  "that 
you  and  your  family  have  thought  of  a  way  of 
paying  your  debts." 

An  angry  flush  rose  to  Bertrand's  forehead. 
"Monsieur  Deydier!"  he  protested,  and 
jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Eh!  what?"  the  father  retorted  loudly. 
"What  else  had  you  in  mind,  when,  fresh  from 
the  smart  which  one  woman  dealt  you,  you 
sought  another  whose  wealth  would  satisfy  the 


MAN    TO   MAN  261 

creditors  who  were  snapping  like  dogs  at  your 
heels?" 

"I  swear  that  this  is  false!  I  love  Nicolette 
» 

"Bah!  you  loved  Rixende  a  week  ago " 

"I  love  Nicolette,"  he  reiterated  firmly,  "and 
she  loves  me." 

"Nicolette  is  a  child  who  has  mistaken 
pity  for  love,  as  many  wenches  do.  You  were 
her  friend,  her  playmate ;  she  saw  you  flounder- 
ing in  a  morass  of  debt  and  disgrace,  and  in- 
stinctively she  put  out  her  hand  to  save  you. 
She  will  get  over  that  love.  I'll  see  to  it  that 
she  forgets  you." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  be  able  to  do  that, 
Monsieur  Deydier,"  Bertrand  put  in  more 
quietly.  "Nicolette  is  as  true  as  steel." 

"Pity  you  did  not  find  that  out  sooner,  be- 
fore you  ran  after  that  vixen  who  has  thrown 
you  over." 

"Better  men  than  I  have  gone  blindly  past 
their  happiness.  Not  many  have  had  the  luck 
to  turn  back." 

"Too  late,  M.  le  Comte,"  Deydier  riposted 
coldly.  "I  told  Nicolette  yesterday  that 
never,  with  my  consent,  will  she  be  your  wife." 

"You  will  kill  her,  Monsieur  Deydier." 


262  NICOLETTE 

"Not  I.  She  is  proud  and  soon  she  will 
understand." 

"We  love  one  another,  Nicolette  will  under- 
stand nothing  save  that  I  love  her.  You  may 
forbid  the  marriage,"  Bertrand  went  on  vehe- 
mently, "but  you  cannot  forbid  Nicolette  to 
love  me.  We  love  one  another ;  we'll  belong  to 
one  another,  whatever  you  may  do  or  say." 

"Whatever  Madame,  your  grandmother, 
may  say?"  retorted  Deydier  with  a  sneer. 
Then  as  Bertrand  made  no  reply  to  that  taunt, 
he  added  more  kindly: 

"Come,  my  dear  Bertrand,  look  on  the  affair 
as  a  man.  I  have  known  you  ever  since  you 
were  in  your  cradle :  would  I  speak  to  you  like 
this  if  I  had  not  the  happiness  of  my  child  to 
defend?" 

Bertrand  drew  a  quick,  impatient  sigh. 

"That  is  where  you  are  wrong,  Monsieur 
Deydier,"  he  said,  "Nicolette's  happiness  is 
bound  up  in  me." 

"As  your  mother's  was  bound  up  in  your 
father,  what?"  Deydier  retorted  hotly.  "She 
too  was  a  loving,  trusting  girl  once:  she  too 
was  rich;  and  when  her  fortune  was  sunk  into 
the  bottomless  morass  of  family  debts,  your 
father  went  out  of  the  world  leaving  her  to 
starve  or  not  according  as  her  friends  were  gen- 


MANTOMAN  263 

erous  or  her  creditors  rapacious.  Look  at  her 
now,  M.  le  Comte,  and  tell  me  if  any  father 
could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  see  his  child  go  the 
way  of  the  Comtesse  Marcelle?" 

"You  are  hard,  Monsieur  Deydier." 

"You  would  find  me  harder  still  if  you 
brought  Nicolette  to  unhappiness." 

"I  love  her— 

"You  never  thought  of  her  until  your  cred- 
itors were  at  your  heels  and  you  saw  no  other 
way  before  you  to  satisfy  them,  save  a  rich  mar- 
riage." 

"It  is  false!" 

"False  is  it?"  Deydier  riposted  roughly, 
"How  else  do  you  hope  to  satisfy  your  cred- 
itors, M.  le  Comte  de  Ventadour?  If  you 
married  Nicolette  without  a  dowry  how  would 
you  satisfy  them?  How  would  you  live?  how 
would  you  support  your  wife  and  your  coming 
family  ? 

"These  may  be  sordid  questions,  ugly  to  face 
beside  the  fine  sounding  assertions  and  protes- 
tations of  selfless  love.  But  I  am  not  an  aris- 
tocrat. I  am  a  peasant  and  speak  as  I  think. 
And  I  ask  you  this  one  more  question,  M.  le 
Comte:  in  exchange  for  all  the  love,  the  secu- 
rity, the  wealth,  which  a  marriage  with  my 
daughter  would  bring  you,  what  have  you  to 


264  NICOLETTE 

offer  her?  An  ancient  name?  It  is  tar- 
nished. A  chateau?  'Tis  in  ruins.  Position? 
'Tis  one  of  shame.  Nay!  M.  le  Comte  go  and 
offer  these  treasures  elsewhere.  My  daughter 
is  too  good  for  you." 

"You  are  both  cruel  and  hard,  Monsieur 
Deydier,"  Bertrand  protested,  with  a  cry  of 
indignation  that  came  straight  from  the  heart. 
"On  my  honour  the  thought  of  Nicolette's  for- 
tune never  once  entered  my  mind." 

To  this  Deydier  made  no  reply.  A  look  of 
determination,  stronger  even  than  before, 
made  his  face  look  hard  and  almost  repellent. 
He  pressed  his  lips  tightly  together,  his  eyes 
narrowed  till  they  appeared  like  mere  slits  be- 
neath his  bushy  brows;  he  buried  his  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  his  breeches  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  room,  seeming  with  each  step  to 
strengthen  his  resolve.  Then  he  came  to  a  sud- 
den halt  in  front  of  Bertrand,  the  hardness 
partly  vanished  from  his  face,  and  he  placed  a 
hand,  the  touch  of  which  was  not  altogether 
unkind,  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"Suppose,  my  dear  Bertrand,"  he  said  slow- 
ly, "suppose  I  were  to  take  you  at  your  word. 
On  your  honour  you  have  assured  me  that 
Nicolette's  fortune  never  once  entered  your 
head.  Very  well!  Go  back  now  and  tell 


MAX    TO    MAX  265 

Madame  your  grandmother  that  you  love  my 
daughter,  that  your  life's  happiness  is  bound 
up  in  hers  and  hers  in  yours,  but  that  I  am  not 
in  a  position  to  give  her  a  dowry.  I  am  re- 
puted rich,  but  I  have  no  capital  to  dispose  of 
and  I  have  certain  engagements  which  I  must 
fulfil  before  I  can  afford  the  luxury  of  paying 
your  debts.  I  may  give  Xicolette  a  few  hun- 
dred louis  a  year,  pin  money,  but  that  is  all. 
One  moment,  I  pray  you,"  Deydier  added,  see- 
ing that  hot  words  of  protest  had  already  risen 
to  Bertrand's  lips.  "I  am  not  giving  you  a 
supposition.  I  am  telling  you  a  fact.  If  you 
love  Xicolette  sufficiently  to  lead  a  life  of  use- 
fulness and  simplicity  with  her,  here  in  her  old 
home,  you  shall  have  her.  Let  old  Madame 
come  and  ask  me  for  my  daughter's  hand,  on 
your  behalf,  you  shall  have  her :  but  my  money, 
no!" 

For  a  long  while  after  that  there  was  silence 
between  the  two  men.  Jaume  Deydier  had 
once  more  resumed  his  fateful  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room.  There  was  a  grim,  set  smile 
upon  his  face,  but  every  time  his  eyes  rested 
on  Bertrand,  a  sullen  fire  seemed  to  blaze 
within  them. 

A  pall  of  despair  had  descended  once  more 
on  Bertrand.  all  the  darker,  all  the  more  suffo- 


266  NICOLETTE 

eating  for  the  brief  ray  of  hope  that  lightened 
it  yesterday.  In  his  heart,  he  knew  that  the 
old  man  was  right.  When  he  had  set  out  this 
morning  to  speak  with  Deydier,  he  had  done 
so  under  the  firm  belief  that  ISTicolette's  for- 
tune expressed  in  so  many  words  by  her  father 
would  soon  dispel  grandmama's  objection  to 
her  lowly  birth.  He  hoped  that  he  would  re- 
turn from  that  interview  bringing  with  him 
such  dazzling  financial  prospects  that  old 
Madame  herself  would  urge  and  approve  of  the 
marriage.  Like  all  those  who  are  very  young, 
he  was  so  convinced  of  the  justice  and  impor- 
tance of  his  cause,  that  it  never  entered  his 
mind  that  his  advocacy  of  it  would  result  in 
failure. 

Failure  and  humiliation! 

He,  a  Comte  de  Ventadour,  had  asked  for 
the  hand  of  a  peasant  wench  and  it  had  been 
refused.  Only  now  did  he  realise  quite  how 
low  his  family  had  sunk,  that  in  the  eyes  of  this 
descendant  of  lacqueys,  his  name  was  worth 
less  than  nothing. 

Failure,  humiliation  and  sorrow!  Sorrow 
because  the  briefest  searching  of  his  heart  had 
at  once  revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  take  Nicolette  without  her  fortune, 
that  he  was  certainly  not  prepared  to  give  up 


MAN   TO   MAN  267 

his  career  in  order  to  live  the  life  of  usefulness 
at  the  mas,  which  Jaume  Deydier  dangled  be- 
fore him.  Oh!  he  had  no  illusion  on  these 
points.  Yesterday  when  old  Madame  threat- 
ened him  with  an  appeal  to  the  King,  there  was 
still  the  hope  that  in  view  of  such  hopeless  finan- 
cial difficulties  as  beset  him,  His  Majesty  might 
consent  to  a  mesalliance  with  the  wealthy 
daughter  of  a  worthy  manufacturer  of  Prov- 
ence. But  what  Deydier  demanded  to-day 
meant  that  he  would  have  to  resign  his  com- 
mission and  become  an  unpaid  overseer  on  a 
farm,  that  he  would  have  to  renounce  his  career, 
his  friends,  every  prospect  of  ever  rising  again 
to  the  position  which  his  family  had  once  oc- 
cupied. 

Poor  little  Nicolette!  He  loved  her,  yes! 
but  not  enough  for  that.  To  renounce  any- 
thing for  her  sake  had  not  formed  a  part  of  his 
affection.  And  love  without  sacrifice — what 
is  it  but  the  pale,  sickly  ghost  of  the  exacting 
Master  of  us  all? 

Poor  little  Nicolette!  he  sighed,  and  right 
through  the  silence  of  the  dull  winter's  morn- 
ing there  came,  faintly  echoing,  another  sigh 
which  was  just  like  a  sob. 

Both  the  men  swung  round  simultaneously 
and  gazed  upon  the  doorway.  Nicolette  stood 


268  N  I  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

there  under  the  lintel.  Unable  to  lie  still  in 
bed,  while  her  life's  happiness  was  held  in  the 
balance,  she  had  dressed  herself  and  softly 
crept  downstairs. 

"Nicolette!"  Bertrand  exclaimed.  And  at 
sight  of  her  all  the  tenderness  of  past  years,  the 
ideal  love  of  Paul  for  Virginie  surged  up  in  his 
heart  like  a  great  wave  of  warmth  and  of  pity. 
"When  did  you  come  down?"  She  came  for- 
ward into  the  room,  treading  softly  like  a  little 
mouse,  her  face  pale  and  her  lips  slightly  quiv- 
ering. 

"A  moment  or  two  ago,"  she  replied  simply. 

"Then  you  heard — "  he  asked  involuntarily. 

"I  heard,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  heard  your 
silence." 

Bertrand  raised  his  two  hands  and  hid  his 
face  in  them.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  felt 
so  ashamed.  Deydier  went  to  his  daughter's 
side:  he  wanted  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to 
comfort  her  for  this  humiliation,  which  he  had 
been  the  means  of  putting  upon  her,  but  she 
turned  away  from  her  father  and  came  near  to 
Bertrand.  She  seized  both  his  wrists  with  her 
tiny  hands,  and  dragged  them  away  from  his 
face. 

"Look  at  me,  Bertrand,"  she  said  gently. 


MANTOMAN  269 

And  when  his  eyes,  shamed  and  passionately 
imploring   met   hers,    she    went    on    quietly. 

"Listen,  Bertrand,  when  yesterday,  on  our 
dear  island,  I  confessed  to  you  that  I  had  loved 
you — all  my  life — I  did  it  without  any  thought, 
any  hope  that  you  loved  me  in  return — You 
could  not  love  me  yet — I  myself  should  de- 
spise you  if  you  could  so  easily  forget  one  love 
for  another — but  I  did  it  with  the  firm  belief 
that  in  time  you  would  learn  to  love  me " 

"Nicolette!"  Bertrand  cried,  and  her  sweet- 
sounding  name  was  choked  in  a  sob. 

"Listen,  my  dear,"  she  continued  firmly. 
"Nothing  that  has  passed  between  my  father 
and  you  can  alter  that  belief — I  love  you  and 
I  shall  love  you  all  my  life — I  know  that  it  is 
foolish  to  suppose  that  your  family  would  come 
here  and  humbly  beg  me  to  be  your  wife — it 
would  also  be  mad  folly  to  ask  you  to  give  up 
your  career  in  order  to  bury  yourself  here  out 
of  the  world  with  me.  That  is  not  my  idea  of 
love:  that  was  not  in  my  thoughts  yesterday 
when  I  confessed  my  love  to  you." 

"Nicolette!" 

This  time  it  was  her  father  who  protested, 
but  she  paid  no  heed  to  him.  She  was  stand- 
ing beside  Bertrand  and  she  was  pleading  for 
her  love. 


270  NICOLETTE 

"Nay,  father  dear,"  she  said  resolutely, 
"you  have  had  your  say.  Now  you  must  let 
me  have  mine.  Listen,  Tan-tan,  what  I  con- 
fessed to  you  yesterday,  that  I  still  confess 
now.  I  have  loved  you  always.  I  love  you 
still.  If  you  will  take  me  now  from  whatever 
motive,  I  am  content,  for  I  know  that  in  time 
you  will  love  me  too.  Until  then  I  can  wait. 
But  if  father  makes  it  impossible  for  you  to 
take  me,  then  we  will  part,  but  without  bitter- 
ness, for  I  shall  understand.  And  father  will 
understand,  too,  that  without  you,  I  cannot 
live.  I  have  lain  against  your  breast,  my  dear, 
your  lips  have  clung  to  mine;  if  they  tear  me 
away  from  you,  they  will  tear  my  heart  out  of 
my  body  now." 

At  one  time  while  she  spoke  her  voice  had 
broken,  but  in  the  end  it  was  quite  steady,  only 
the  tears  ran  steadily  down  her  cheeks.  Ber- 
trand  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  hungry  long- 
ing. He  could  not  speak.  Any  word  would 
have  choked  him.  What  he  felt  was  intense 
humiliation,  and,  towards  her,  worship.  When 
she  had  finished  and  still  stood  there  before 
him,  with  hands  clasped  and  the  great  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheeks,  he  sank  slowly  on  his 
knees.  He  seized  both  her  little  hands  and 


MAN    TO   MAN  271 

pressed  them  against  his  aching  forehead,  his 
eyes,  his  lips:  then  with  a  passionate  sob  that 
he  tried  vainly  to  suppress,  he  went  quickly 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FATHER  AND   DAUGHTER 

FOR  a  few  seconds  after  Bertrand  had 
gone,  Nicolette  remained  standing  where 
she  was,  quite  still,  dry-eyed  now,  and  with 
lips  set ;  she  seemed  for  the  moment  not  to  have 
realised  that  he  was  no  longer  there.  Then 
presently,  when  his  footsteps  ceased  to  resound 
through  the  house,  when  the  front  door  fell  to 
with  a  bang,  and  the  gate  gave  a  creak  as  it 
turned  on  its  hinges,  she  seemed  to  return  to 
consciousness,  the  consciousness  of  absolute 
silence.  Not  a  sound  now  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  house.  Jaume  Deydier  had  sunk  into 
a  chair  and  was  staring  unseeing,  into  the  fire ; 
Margai  and  the  serving  wenches  were  far  away 
in  the  kitchen.  Only  the  old  clock  ticked  on 
with  dreary  monotony,  and  the  flame  from  the 
hard  olive  wood  burned  with  a  dull  sound  like 
a  long-drawn-out  sigh. 

Then  suddenly  Nicolette  turned  and  ran 
towards  the  door.     But  her  father  was  too 

272 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER      27S 

quick  for  her:  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and  stood 
between  her  and  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Nicolette?"  he 
asked. 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  she  retorted  defi- 
antly. 

Just  like  some  dumb  animal  that  has  re- 
ceived a  death  blow  Deydier  uttered  a  hoarse 
cry ;  he  staggered  up  against  the  door,  and  had 
to  cling  to  it  as  if  he  were  about  to  fall.  For 
a  second  or  two  he  stared  at  her  almost  doubt- 
ing his  own  sanity.  This  then  was  his  little 
Xicolette,  the  baby  girl  who  had  lain  in  his 
arms,  whose  first  toddling  steps  he  had  guided, 
for  whom  he  had  lain  awake  o'  nights,  schemed, 
worked,  lived?  The  motherless  child  who  had 
never  missed  a  mother  because  he  had  been 
everything  to  her,  had  done  twice  as  much  for 
her  as  any  mother  could  have  done?  This,  his 
little  Nicolette  who  stabbed  at  his  heart  with 
that  sublime  selfishness  of  love  that  rides 
rough-shod  over  every  obstacle,  every  affection, 
every  duty,  and  in  order  to  gain  its  own  heaven, 
hurls  every  other  fond  heart  into  hell? 

Deydier  was  no  longer  a  young  man.  He 
had  married  late  in  life,  and  strenuous  work 
had  hastened  one  or  two  of  the  unpleasant 
symptoms  of  old  age.  The  last  two  days  had 


274  NICOLETTE 

brought  with  them  such  a  surfeit  of  emotions, 
such  agonising  sensations,  that  this  final  sor- 
row seemed  beyond  his  physical  powers  of  en- 
durance. Clinging  to  the  door,  he  felt  himself 
turning  giddy  and  faint ;  once  or  twice  he  drew 
his  arm  across  and  across  his  forehead  on  which 
stood  beads  of  cold  perspiration.  Then  a 
shadow  passed  before  his  eyes,  the  walls  of  the 
room  appeared  to  be  closing  in  around  him, 
hemming  him  in.  Everything  became  dark, 
black  as  night;  he  put  out  his  arms,  and  the 
next  moment  would  have  measured  his  length 
on  the  floor.  It  all  occurred  in  less  than  two 
seconds.  At  his  first  cry  all  the  obstinacy,  the 
defiance  in  Nicolette's  heart,  melted  in  face  of 
her  father's  grief — her  father  whom  she  loved 
better  than  anything  in  the  world.  When  he 
staggered  forward  she  caught  him.  She  was 
as  strong  as  a  young  sapling,  and  fear  and  love 
gave  her  additional  strength.  A  chair  was 
close  by,  she  was  able  to  drag  him  into  it,  to 
prop  him  up  against  the  cushions,  to  fondle 
him  until  she  saw  his  dear  eyes  open,  and  fasten 
themselves  hungrily  upon  her.  She  would 
then  have  broken  down  completely,  great  sobs 
were  choking  her,  but  she  would  not  cry,  not 
now  when  he  was  ill  and  weak,  and  it  was  her 
privilege  to  minister  to  him.  She  found  a 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER       275 

glass  and  a  bottle  of  old  cognac,  and  made  him 
swallow  that. 

But  when  he  had  drunk  the  cognac,  and  had 
obviously  recovered,  when  he  drew  her  forcibly 
on  his  knee  crying: 

"My  little  Nicolette,  my  dear,  dear  little 
Nicolette,"  and  pressed  her  head  against  his 
breast,  till  she  could  hardly  breathe,  when  she 
felt  hot,  heavy  tears  falling  against  her  fore- 
head, then  she  could  not  hold  back  those  sobs 
any  longer,  and  just  lay  on  his  breast,  crying, 
crying,  while  he  soothed  her  with  his  big,  fond 
hand,  murmuring  with  infinite  tenderness : 

"There,  there,  my  little  Nicolette !  Don't- 
don't  cry — I  ought  to  have  told  you  before. 
You  were  a  grown  girl,  and  I  did  not  realise  it 
— or  I  should  have  told  you  before " 

"Told  me  wrhat,  father?"  she  contrived  to 
whisper  through  her  sobs. 

"You  would  have  understood,"  he  went  on 
gently.  "It  was  wrong  of  me  to  think  that 
you  would  just  obey  your  old  father,  without 
understanding.  Love  is  a  giant,"  he  added 
with  a  sigh,  "he  cannot  be  coerced,  I  ought  to 
have  known." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  stared  out 
straight  before  him.  Nicolette  slid  out  of  his 
arms  on  to  the  floor;  her  hand  was  resting  on 


276  NICOLETTE 

his  knee,  and  she  laid  her  cheek  against  it.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath,  and  then  went  on : 

"Your  mother  was  just  like  you,  my  dear,  I 
loved  her  with  as  great  a  love  as  man  ever  gave 
to  a  woman.  But  she  did  not  care  for  me — 
not  then. — Did  she  ever  care,  I  wonder — God 
alone  knows  that." 

He  sighed  again,  and  Nicolette  not  daring  to 
speak,  feeling  that  she  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  secret  orchard,  that  time  and  death  had 
rendered  sacred,  waited  in  silence  until  he 
should  continue. 

"Just  like  you,  my  dear,"  Deydier  resumed 
slowly  after  awhile,  "she  had  given  her  heart  to 
one  of  those  Ventadours.  Ah!  I  don't  say 
that  he  was  unworthy.  God  forbid!  Like 
young  Bertrand  he  was  handsome  and  gallant, 
full  I  dare  say  of  enthusiasm  and  idealism. 

And  she !  Ah,  my  dear,  if  you  had  only 

known  her !  She  was  like  a  flower !  like  an  ex- 
quisite, delicate  snowdrop,  with  hair  fairer  than 
yours,  and  large  grey  eyes  that  conquered  a 
man's  heart  with  one  look.  All  the  lads  of  our 
countryside  were  in  love  with  her.  Margari- 
dette  was  her  name,  but  they  all  called  her 
Ridette;  as  for  me  I  was  already  a  middle- 
aged  man  when  that  precious  bud  opened  into 
a  perfect  blossom.  I  was  rich,  and  I  wor- 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       277 

shipped  her,  but  I  had  nothing  else  to  offer. 
She  used  to  smile  when  I  spoke  to  her  of  my 
love,  and  softly  murmur,  sighing:  'Poor 
Jaume.' 

"But  somehow  I  never  gave  up  hope,  I  felt 
that  love,  as  strong  as  mine,  must  conquer  in 
the  end.  How  this  would  come  about  I  had 
not  troubled  to  think,  I  was  not  likely  to  be- 
come younger  or  handsomer  as  time  went  on, 
was  I?" 

Once  more  he  paused ;  memories  were  crowd- 
ing around  him  fast.  His  eyes  stared  into  the 
smouldering  embers  of  the  hearth,  seeing  vi- 
sions of  past  things  that  had  long  ceased  to  be. 

"Then  one  evening,  my  dear,  something  was 
revealed  to  me.  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  night, 
soft  as  a  dream,  warm  as  a  downy  bed;  and 
spring  was  in  the  air — spring  that  sent  the 
blood  coursing  through  one's  veins,  and  beat- 
ing against  one's  temples  with  a  delicious  sense 
of  longing  and  of  languor.  It  was  Candlemas, 
and  I  had  been  to  church  at  Pertuis  where 
Monseigneur  the  Bishop  of  Aix  had  celebrated 
Mass.  I  remember  I  had  walked  over  with 
Margai  because  she  had  never  seen  a  real 
bishop  celebrating.  We  had  some  beautiful 
tall  green  candles  which  I  had  bought  in  Mar- 
seilles, they  were  nearly  two  metres  high,  and 


278  NICOLETTE 

very  thick,  and  of  course  these  were  blessed 
by  Monseigneur.  The  air  was  so  marvellously 
still,  and  we  both  walked  so  carefully  with  our 
candles,  that  their  lights  never  went  out  the 
whole  of  the  way  back  from  Pertuis.  Your 
grandmother  was  alive  then,  and  my  cousin 
Violante  was  staying  at  the  mas  with  her  two 
children,  so  when  Marga'i  and  I  arrived  home 
with  our  beautiful  green  candles  alight,  my 
mother  started  the  round  of  the  house  with 
them,  and  we  all  after  her,  Violante,  the  chil- 
dren, Margai  and  the  servants,  and  she  marked 
every  door  and  every  window  of  the  mas  with  a 
cross,  as  is  traditional  in  our  beautiful  country, 
so  as  to  preserve  us  all  against  God's  thunder 
and  lightning.  And  still  the  candles  were 
burning  ;  neither  the  draught  nor  the  rush  up 
and  down  the  stairs  had  blown  out  the  lights. 
And  they  were  so  tall  and  thick,  that  I  stuck 
them  up  on  spikes  which  I  had  got  ready  for 
the  purpose,  and  they  went  on  burning  all 
through  dinner  and  the  whole  of  the  long  after- 
noon. And  Margai  would  have  it  that  candles 
blessed  by  a  bishop  were  more  potent  as  har- 
bingers of  good  fortune  than  those  on  which 
only  the  hand  of  a  cure  had  lain.  So  when  the 
sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  air  was  full  of  the 
scent  of  spring,  of  young  earth,  and  growing 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       279 

grass  and  budding  flowers,  I  took  one  of  the 
candles  and  went  down  into  the  valley.  I 
wanted  to  give  it  to  Margaridette  so  that  all 
the  blessings  of  God  of  which  that  burning  can- 
dle was  the  symbol,  should  descend  upon  her 
head. 

"I  went  down  into  the  valley,  and  walked  on 
the  shores  of  the  Leze.  The  candle  burned 
clear  and  bright,  the  flame  hardly  flickered  for 
the  air  was  so  still.  Then  suddenly  I  spied, 
coming  towards  me,  two  young  forms  that 
seemed  as  one,  so  closely  did  they  cling  to  one 
another.  Young  Raymond  de  Ventadour,  it 
was,  and  he  had  his  arm  around  your  dear 
mother's  waist,  and  her  pretty  head  rested 
against  his  shoulder.  They  did  not  see  me,  for 
they  were  so  completely  absorbed  in  one  an- 
other ;  and  I  remained  quite  still,  crouching  be- 
hind a  carob  tree,  lest  I  should  disturb  them  in 
their  happiness.  But  when  they  had  gone  by  I 
saw  that  a  breath  of  wind,  or  perhaps  the  lips 
of  an  angel,  had  blown  my  candle  out. 

"Well,  my  dear,  after  that,"  Deydier  went 
on  in  a  firmer  and  more  even  voice,  "I  was  con- 
vinced in  my  mind  that  all  was  well  with  Mar- 
garidette. True,  Raymond  de  Ventadour  be- 
longed to  an  ancient  and  aristocratic  race,  but 
the  Revolution  was  recent  then,  and  we  all  held 


280  NICOLETTE 

on  to  those  ideals  of  equality  and  fraternity 
for  which  we  had  suffered  so  terribly.  Mar- 
garidette's  father  had  been  a  ship-builder  in 
Marseilles;  he  had  retired  at  the  outbreak  of 
the  Revolution  and  bought  a  house  and  a  lit- 
tle piece  of  land  on  the  other  side  of  La  Bas- 
tide.  We  all  looked  upon  him  as  something  of 
an  "aristo"  and  to  me  it  seemed  the  most  nat- 
ural thing  in  the  world  that  the  two  young 
people,  being  in  love  with  one  another,  should 
eventually  get  married,  especially  as  Raymond 
de  Ventadour  was  a  younger  son.  But  though 
I  was  a  middle-aged  man,  turned  forty  then, 
I  had  it  seems  not  sufficient  experience  of  life 
to  realise  to  what  depths  of  infamy  man  or 
woman  can  sink,  when  their  ruling  passion  is 
at  stake.  I  had  not  yet  learned  to  know  Ma- 
dame la  Comtesse  Margarita  de  Ventadour, 
the  Italian  mother  of  Bertrand's  father,  and 
of  young  Raymond. 

"You  know  her,  my  dear,  but  have  you  eyes 
sharp  enough  to  probe  the  abyss  of  cruelty  that 
lies  in  that  woman's  soul?  Her  arrogance,  her 
pride  of  race,  her  worship  of  grandeur  have 
made  her  a  fiend — no  longer  human — just  a 
monster  of  falsehood  and  of  malice.  Well  do 
I  remember  the  day  when  first  the  news 
reached  my  ears  that  young  M.  Raymond  was 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       281 

affianced  to  Mademoiselle  Marcelle  de  Cerca- 
mons.  There,"  he  added  quickly,  and  for  the 
first  time  turning  his  gaze  on  the  girl  kneeling 
at  his  feet,  "your  dear  hand  is  trembling  on 
mine.  You  have  begun  to  guess  something 
of  the  awful  tragedy  which  wrecked  two  young 
lives  at  the  bidding  of  that  cruel  vixen.  Yes, 
that  was  the  news  that  was  all  over  the  villages 
that  summer.  M.  Raymond  was  marrying 
Mademoiselle  Marcelle  de  Cercamons.  He 
was  fighting  under  General  Moreau  in  Ger- 
many, but  he  was  coming  home  early  in  the 
autumn  to  get  married.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  anyone's  mind  about  it,  as  the  news  was 
originally  brought  by  Perone,  Mme.  la  Com- 
tesse's  own  confidential  maid.  She  spoke — to 
Margai  amongst  others — about  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  wedding,  the  beauty  of  Marcelle 
de  Cercamons,  the  love  M.  Raymond  had  for 
his  beautiful  fiancee.  The  lady  was  passing 
rich,  and  the  wedding  would  take  place  at  her 
ancestral  home  in  Normandy;  all  this  that 
spawn  of  Satan,  the  woman  Perone,  told  every- 
one with  a  wealth  of  detail  that  deceived  us  all. 
Then  one  day  she  descended  like  a  hideous 
black  crow  on  Margaridette  with  a  letter  pur- 
porting to  be  from  M.  Raymond,  in  which  he 
demanded  that  the  poor  child  should  return 


282  NICOLETTE 

him  the  ring  that  he  had  given  her  in  token  of 
his  faith.  The  next  day  the  Comtesse  left  the 
chateau,  accompanied  by  Perone.  She  was 
going  to  Normandy  for  the  wedding  of  her 
son." 

"It  was  all  false?"  Nicolette  murmured 
under  her  breath,  awed  by  this  tale  of  a  tragedy 
that  she  felt  was  also  the  story  of  her  destiny. 

"All  false,  my  dear,"  Deydier  replied,  and 
the  fire  of  a  fierce  resentment  glowed  in  his 
deep-set  eyes.  "It  was  M.  le  Comte  de  Venta- 
dour,  Madame's  eldest  son,  who  was  marrying 
Mademoiselle  de  Cercamons.  He,  too,  was 
away.  He  was  in  Paris,  leading  the  life  of 
dissipation  which  one  has  learned  to  associate 
with  his  family.  M.  Raymond  was  in  Ger- 
many fighting  under  Moreau,  and  writing  let- 
ters full  of  glowing  ardour  to  his  beloved.  But 
mark  the  fulness  of  that  woman's  infamy.  Be- 
fore her  son  left  for  the  war,  he  had  confessed 
to  his  mother  his  love  for  Margaridette,  and 
the  Comtesse,  whose  cruelty  is  only  equalled  by 
her  cunning,  appeared  to  acquiesce  in  this 
idyll,  nay!  to  bestow  on  it  her  motherly  bless- 
ing. And  do  you  know  why  she  did  that,  my 
dear?  So  as  to  gain  the  two  young  people's 
confidence  and  cause  them  to  send  all  their 
letters  to  one  another  through  her  hands.  How 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       <283 

should  a  boy  mistrust  his  own  mother?  espe- 
cially after  she  has  blessed  him  and  his  love; 
and  Raymond  was  little  more  than  a  boy. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  withheld  all  his  let- 
ters from  Margaridette,  and  all  Margaridette's 
letters  from  him.  After  awhile,  Margaridette 
thought  herself  forgotten,  and  when  the  news 
came  that  her  lover  had  been  false  to  her,  and 
was  about  to  wed  another,  how  could  she  help 
but  believe  it? 

"From  such  depths  of  falsehood  to  the  mere 
forging  of  a  letter  and  a  signature  asking  for 
the  return  of  the  ring,  was  but  a  step  in  this 
path  of  iniquity.  Poor  Margaridette  fell  into 
the  execrable  trap  laid  for  her  by  those  cun- 
ning hands,  she  fell  into  it  like  a  bird,  and  in  it 
received  her  death  wound.  It  was  the  day  of 
the  wedding  at  Cercamons  in  Normandy — 
Perone,  you  see,  had  not  spared  us  a  single 
detail — and  I,  vaguely  agitated,  vaguely  terri- 
fied of  something  I  could  not  define,  could  not 
rest  at  home.  All  morning,  all  afternoon,  I 
tried  to  kill  that  agitation  by  hard  work,  but 
the  evening  came  and  my  very  blood  was  on 
fire.  I  felt  stifled  in  the  house.  My  mother,  I 
could  see,  was  anxious  about  me ;  her  kind  eyes 
fell  sadly  on  me  from  time  to  time,  while  she 
sat  knitting  in  this  very  chair  by  the  hearth. 


284  NICOLETTE 

It  was  late  autumn,  and  the  day  had  been  grey 
and  mild,  but  for  some  hours  past  heavy  clouds 
had  gathered  over  Luberon  and  spread  them- 
selves above  the  valley.  Toward  eight  o'clock 
the  rain  came  down ;  soon  it  turned  into  a  down- 
pour. The  water  beat  against  the  shutters, 
the  cypress  trees  by  the  gate  bowed  and  sighed 
under  the  wind.  Presently  I  noticed  that  my 
mother  had,  as  was  her  wont,  fallen  asleep  over 
her  knitting.  I  seized  the  opportunity  and 
stole  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house. 
Something  seemed  to  be  driving  me  along,  just 
as  it  did  last  night,  my  dear,  when  I  found  that 
you  had  gone " 

His  rough  hand  closed  on  Nicolette's,  and 
he  lifted  her  back  upon  his  knees,  and  put  his 
arms  round  her  with  an  almost  savage  gesture 
of  possession. 

"I  went  down  into  the  valley,"  he  went  on 
sombrely,  "and  along  the  river  bank.  The 
rain  beat  into  my  face,  and  all  around  me  the 
olive  and  the  carob  trees  were  moaning  and 
groaning  under  the  lash  of  the  wind.  I  had  a 
storm  lanthorn  with  me — for  in  truth  I  do  be- 
lieve that  God  Himself  sent  me  out  into  the 
valley  that  night — and  this,  I  swung  before  me 
as  I  walked  through  the  darkness  and  the  gale. 
Something  drew  me  on.  Something! 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       285 

"And  there,  where  the  mountain  stream 
widens  into  a  shallow  pool,  and  where  a  great 
carob  tree  overshadows  the  waters,  I  saw  Mar- 
garidette  crouching  beside  a  boulder,  just  as  I 
saw  you,  my  little  girl,  last  night.  Her  hair 
was  wet  like  yours  was,  her  shawl  had  slipped 
from  her  shoulders  and  was  soaked  in  the 
stream ;  her  dear  arms  were  thrown  over  the  wet 
stone,  and  her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands.  I 
gathered  her  up  in  my  arms.  I  wrapped  my 
coat  around  her  shoulders,  and  I  carried  her  to 
the  mas,  just  as  I  carried  you.  .  .  ." 

He  said  no  more,  and  with  his  arms  still  held 
tightly  around  his  child,  he  once  more  stared 
into  the  fire.  And  Nicolette  lay  in  his  arms, 
quite  still,  quite  still.  Presently  he  spoke 
again,  but  she  scarcely  heard  him  now:  only 
a  few  phrases  spoken  with  more  passionate  in- 
tensity than  the  rest  reached  her  dulled  senses : 
"She  acquiesced — just  like  a  child  who  was  too 
sick  to  argue — her  father  urged  it  because  he 
thought  that  Margaridette's  name  had  been 
unpleasantly  coupled  with  that  of  M.  Ray- 
mond— and  then  he  liked  me,  and  I  was  rich — 
and  so  we  were  married — and  I  loved  my  Mar- 
garidette  so  ardently  that  in  time,  I  think,  she 
cared  for  me  a  little,  too — Then  you  were  born, 
my  Nicolette — and  she  died -" 


286  NICOLETTE 

Nicolette  felt  as  if  her  very  soul  were  numb 
within  her ;  her  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  dead. 

So  then  this  was  the  end?  Oh!  she  no  longer 
had  any  illusions,  no  longer  any  hope.  What 
could  she  do  in  face  of  THIS?  Her  father's 
grief !  that  awful  tragedy  which  he  had  recalled 
had  as  effectually  killed  every  hope  as  not  even 
death  could  have  done. 

This,  then,  was  the  end?  Tan-tan  would  in 
very  truth  go  out  of  her  life  after  this.  She 
could  never  see  him  again.  Never.  She 
could  never  hope  to  make  him  understand  how 
utterly,  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  for  her 
to  deal  her  father  another  blow.  It  would  be 
a  death  blow!  And  dealt  by  her?  No,  it 
could  not,  could  not  be.  Vaguely  she  asked — 
thinking  of  Bertrand — what  ultimately  be- 
came of  Raymond  de  Ventadour. 

"He  came  back  from  the  wars,"  Deydier  ex- 
plained, "three  months  after  I  had  laid  your 
mother  in  her  grave.  We,  in  the  meanwhile, 
had  heard  of  the  cruel  deceit  practised  upon  her 
by  old  Madame,  we  had  seen  M.  le  Comte  de 
Ventadour  bring  home  his  bride:  and  it  is  the 
fondest  tribute  that  I  can  offer  to  my  Margari- 
dette's  undying  memory,  that  never  once  did 
she  make  me  feel  that  I  had  won  her  through 
that  woman's  infamous  trick.  Raymond  de 


FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER       287 

Ventadour  had  naturally  been  led  to  believe 
that  Margaridette  had  been  false  to  him :  when 
he  came  home  his  first  visit  was  to  me.  I  think 
he  meant  to  kill  me.  Never  have  I  seen  a  man 
in  such  a  passion  of  despair.  But,  standing 
in  the  room  where  she  died  and  where  you  were 
born,  I  told  him  the  whole  truth  just  as  I  knew 
it :  and  I  don't  know  which  of  us  two  suffered 
the  most  at  that  hour:  he  or  I." 

"And  after  that?"  Nicolette  murmured. 

"He  went  away.  Some  said  that  he  fought 
in  Egypt,  and  there  was  killed  in  action.  But 
no  one  ever  knew:  not  even  his  mother.  All 
we  did  know  was  that  Raymond  de  Ventadour 
never  came  back!" 

He  never  came  back  I 

And  Nicolette,  lying  in  her  father's  arms, 
took  to  envying  her  mother  who  rested  so 
peacefully  in  the  little  churchyard  way  up  at 
La  Bastide.  As  for  her,  even  her  life  was  not 
her  own.  It  belonged  to  this  grief-stricken 
man  who  held  her  so  closely  in  his  arms  that  she 
knew  she  could  never  go.  It  belonged  to  him, 
and  would  have  to  go  on,  and  on,  in  dreary,  or 
cheerful  monotony,  while  the  snows  on  Lu- 
beron  melted  year  after  year,  and,  year  after 
year,  the  wild  thyme  and  rosemary  came  into 


288  NICOLETTE 

bloom,  and  the  flowers  on  the  orange  trees  blos- 
somed and  withered  again. 

Year  after  year! 

And  Bertrand  would  never  come  back! 


CHAPTER  XV 

OLD  MADAME 

WHEN  old  Madame  heard  from  Ber- 
trand  that  he  had  asked  Xicolette  Dey- 
dier  to  be  his  wife,  and  that  Jaume  had  rejected 
his  suit  with  contempt,  she  was  hotly  indig- 
nant. 

"The  insolence  of  that  rabble  passes  belief!'* 
she  said,  and  refused  even  to  discuss  the  sub- 
ject with  Bert  rand. 

"You  do  not  suppose,  I  imagine,"  she  went 
on  haughtily,  "that  I  should  go  curtsying  to 
that  lout  and  humbly  beg  for  his  wench's  hand 
in  marriage  for  my  grandson." 

But  her  pride,  though  it  had  received  many 
a  blow  these  last  few  days,  was  not  altogether 
laid  in  the  dust.  It  was  not  even  humbled. 
To  the  Comtesse  Marcelle  she  said  with  the  ut- 
most confidence: 

"You  were  always  a  coward  and  a  fool,  my 
dear:  and  imbued  with  the  Christian  spirit  of 
holding  out  your  left  cheek  when  your  right 
one  had  been  smitten.  But  you  surely  know 

289 


290  NICOLETTE 

me  well  enough  to  understand  that  I  am  not 
going  to  do  the  same  in  our  present  difficulty. 
Fate  has  dealt  us  an  unpleasant  blow,  I  admit, 
through  the  hand  of  that  vixen,  my  sister 
Sybille.  You  notice  that  I  have  refrained  from 
having  Masses  said  for  the  repose  of  lier  soul, 
and  if  the  bon  Dieu  thinks  as  I  do  on  the  sub- 
ject, Sybille  is  having  a  very  uncomfortable 
time  in  Purgatory  just  now.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  her  spirit  shall  not  have  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  how  hard  her  body  could  hit,  and  in 
a  very  few  days — two  weeks  at  most — you  will 
see  how  little  I  have  bent  to  adverse  fate,  and 
how  quickly  I  have  turned  the  tide  of  our  mis- 
fortune into  one  of  prosperity." 

She  would  say  no  more  just  then,  only  hinted 
vaguely  at  Court  influence,  which  she  was 
neither  too  old  nor  too  poor  to  wield.  The  diffi- 
culty was  to  extract  a  promise  from  Bertrand 
not  to  do  anything  rash,  until  certain  letters 
which  she  expected  from  Paris  should  arrive. 
Bertrand,  indeed,  was  in  such  a  state  of  misery 
that  he  felt  very  like  a  wounded  animal  that 
only  desires  to  hide  itself  away  in  some  hole 
and  corner,  there  to  bleed  to  death  in  peace. 
When  Jaume  Deydier  had  delivered  his  in- 
flexible ultimatum  to  him,  and  he  had  realised 
that  the  exquisite  Paradise  which  Nicolette's 


OLD    MADAME  291 

love  and  self-sacrifice  had  revealed  was  indeed 
closed  against  him  for  ever,  something  in  him 
had  seemed  to  snap:  it  was  his  pride,  his  joy 
in  life,  his  self-confidence.  He  had  felt  so  poor, 
beside  her,  so  poor  in  spirit,  in  love,  in  selfless- 
ness, that  humiliation  had  descended  on  him 
like  a  pall,  which  had  in  it  something  of  the 
embrace,  the  inevitable  embrace  of  death. 

He  had  gone  home  like  a  sleepwalker,  and 
had  felt  like  a  sleepwalker  ever  since:  neither 
his  sister's  sympathy,  nor  old  Madame's  taunts 
and  arrogance  affected  him  in  the  least.  The 
cords  of  life  were  so  attenuated  that  he  felt 
they  would  snap  at  any  moment.  This  was  his 
only  consolation:  a  broken  spirit,  which  might 
lead  to  the  breaking  of  the  cords  of  life.  With- 
out Nicolette  what  was  life  worth  now? 

Love  had  come,  but  it  had  come  too  late. 
Too  late  he  had  come  to  understand  that  whilst 
he  gazed,  intoxicated  and  dazzled,  upon  a 
showy,  artificial  flower,  an  exquisite  and  fra- 
grant bud  had  bloomed  all  the  while  close  to 
his  hand.  Like  so  many  young  creatures  on 
this  earth,  he  believed  that  God  had  especially 
created  him  for  love  and  happiness,  that  the 
Almighty  Hand  had  for  the  time  being  so 
ordained  the  world  and  society  that  love  and 
happiness  would  inevitably  fall  to  his  lot. 


292  NICOLETTE 

Nevertheless,  when  those  two  priceless  bless- 
ings were  actually  within  his  reach,  he  had 
thoughtlessly  and  wantonly  turned  away  from 
them  and  rushed  after  a  mirage  which  had 
proved  as  cruel  as  it  was  elusive. 

And  now  it  was  too  late! 

Like  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
he  would  henceforth  be  for  ever  seeking  that 
which  he  had  lost. 

Only  one  thing  held  him  now:  held  him  to  his 
home  in  old  Provence,  to  the  old  owl's  nest  and 
the  ruined  walls  of  his  ancestral  chateau:  that 
was  his  mother.  The  Comtesse  Marcelle, 
broken  down  in  health  and  spirit,  had  such  a 
weak  hold  on  life  that  Bertrand  felt  that  at 
any  rate  here  was  one  little  thing  in  the  world 
that  he  could  do  to  earn  a  semblance  of  peace 
and  content  for  his  soul.  He  could  stay  be- 
side his  mother  and  comfort  her  with  his  pres- 
ence. He  could  allay  the  fears  which  she  had 
for  him  and  which  seemed  to  drain  the  very 
fountain  of  life  in  her.  So  he  remained  beside 
her,  spending  his  days  beside  her  couch,  reading 
to  her,  reassuring  her  as  to  his  own  state  of 
mind.  And  when  he  went  about  the  room,  or 
turned  toward  the  door,  her  anxious  eyes  would 
follow  his  every  movement,  as  if  at  the  back  of 
her  mind  there  was  always  the  awful  fear  that 


OLD   MADAME  293 

the  terrible  tragedy  which  had  darkened  her 
life  once  and  made  of  her  the  heart-broken 
widow  that  she  was,  would  be  re-enacted  again, 
and  she  be  left  in  uttermost  loneliness  and  de- 
spair. 

His  mother,  of  course! 

But  as  for  Nicolette,  and  all  that  Nicolette 
stood  for  now :  love,  happiness,  peace,  content, 
it  was  too  late! 

Much,  much  too  late! 

He  never  argued  with  old  Madame  about 
her  schemes  and  plans.  He  was  much  too  tired 
to  argue,  and  all  his  time  belonged  to  his 
mother.  She  had  so  little  time  of  her  own  left, 
whilst  he  had  a  kind  of  grotesque  consciousness 
that  grandmama  would  go  on  and  on  in  this 
world,  planning,  scheming,  writing  letters, 
and  making  debts. 

Oh!  those  awful  debts!  But  for  them  Ber- 
trand  would  have  looked  forward  with  perfect 
content  to  following  his  mother,  when  she  went 
to  her  rest. 

But  there  were  the  debts  and  the  disgrace! 

The  last  of  the  de  Ventadours  seeking  in 
death  a  refuge  from  shame,  and  leaving  an 
everlasting  blot  upon  his  name!  The  debts 
and  the  disgrace! 


294.  NICOLETTE 

He  did  once  try  to  speak  of  it  to  old  Ma- 
dame, but  she  only  laughed. 

The  debts  would  be  paid — in  full — in  full! 
As  for  the  disgrace,  how  dare  Bertrand  men- 
tion such  a  word  in  connection  with  the  de  Ven- 
tadours.  And  Bertrand  did  not  dare  speak  of 
his  father  just  then.  Besides,  what  had  been 
the  use? 

The  debts  and  the  disgrace ;  and  the  shame ! 
That  awful  day  in  the  magnificent  apartment 
in  Paris,  when  he  knelt  to  Rixende  and  begged 
her,  begged  her  not  to  throw  him  over!  That 
awful,  awful  day!  And  her  laugh!  It  would 
ring  in  his  ears  until  the  crack  of  doom.  When 
he  told  her  he  could  not  live  without  her,  she 
laughed:  when  he  vaguely  hinted  at  a  bullet 
through  his  head,  she  had  warned  him  not  to 
make  a  mess  on  the  carpet.  Oh !  the  shame  of 
that !  And  old  Madame  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand! The  word  "disgrace"  or  "shame"  was 
not  to  be  used  in  connection  with  the  de  Venta- 
dours,  and  when  he,  Bertrand,  thought  of  that 
day  in  Paris,  and  of  the  debts,  and — and  other 
things,  he  ground  his  teeth,  and  could  have 
beaten  his  head  against  the  wall  in  an  agony 
of  shame. 

How  right  Jaume  Deydier  had  been !  How 
right!  What  was  he,  Comte  de  Ventadour, 


OLD    MADAME  395 

but  a  defaulting  debtor,  a  ne'er-do-well,  sunk 
into  a  quagmire  of  improbity  and  beating  the 
air  with  upstretched  hands  till  they  grasped 
a  safety-pole  held  out  to  him  by  the  weak, 
trusting  arms  of  a  young  girl? 

How  right  Jaume  Deydier  had  been  to  turn 
on  him  and  confound  him  with  his  final  act  of 
cowardice.  What  had  he  to  offer?  Debts,  a 
name  disgraced,  a  heart  spurned  by  another! 
How  right,  how  right!  But,  God  in  heaven, 
the  shame  of  it! 

And  grandmama  would  not  understand. 
Deydier  would  give  his  ears,  she  said,  to  have 
a  Comte  de  Ventadour  for  a  son-in-law:  he 
only  demurred,  made  difficulties  and  demands 
in  order  to  dictate  his  own  terms  with  regard 
to  Nicolette's  dowry.  That  was  old  Madame's 
explanation  of  the  scene  which  had  well-nigh 
killed  Bertram!  with  shame.  Pretence,  she  de- 
clared, mere  pretence  on  Deydier's  part. 

"Keep  away  from  the  mas,  my  son,"  she  said 
coolly  to  Bertrand  one  day,  "keep  away  from 
it  for  a  week,  and  we'll  have  Deydier  sending 
his  wench  to  the  chateau  on  some  pretext  or 
another,  just  to  throw  her  in  your  way  again." 

"But,  thank  God,"  she  added  a  moment  or 
two  later,  "that  we  have  not  yet  sunk  so  low  as 
to  be  driven  into  bestowing  the  name  of  Ven- 


296  NICOLETTE 

tadour  on  a  peasant  wench  for  the  sake  of  her 
money  bags." 

Not  yet  sunk  so  low?  Ye  gods!  Could 
man  sink  lower  than  he,  Bertrand,  had  sunk? 
Could  man  feel  more  shamed  than  he  had  done 
when  Nicolette  stood  beside  him  and  said: 
"Take  me,  take  all!  I'll  not  even  ask  for 
love  in  return?" 

There  was  no  question  that  the  Comtesse 
Marcelle  was  sinking.  Vitality  in  her  was 
at  its  lowest  ebb.  Bertrand  hardly  ever  left 
her  side.  Her  only  joy  appeared  to  be  in  his 
presence,  and  that  of  Micheline.  When  her 
two  children  were  near  her  she  always  seemed 
to  revive  a  little,  and  when  Bertrand  made 
pathetic  efforts  to  entertain  her  by  telling  her 
tales  of  gay  life  in  Paris,  she  even  tried  to  smile. 

Old  Madame  spared  her  the  infliction  of  her 
presence.  She  never  entered  the  sick  room; 
and  Perone  only  came  two  or  three  times  a  day 
to  do  what  was  necessary  for  the  invalid. 

Then  one  day  a  mounted  courier  arrived 
from  Avignon.  He  brought  a  letter  for  old 
Madame. 

It  was  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  old  owl's 
nest  was  wrapped  in  gloom,  for  though  the 
Aubussons  and  the  tapestries,  the  silver  and 


OLD   MADAME  297 

the  spinet  had  been  bought  with  borrowed 
money  or  else  on  credit,  the  funds  had  run  low, 
and  candles  and  oil  were  very  dear. 

Marcelle  de  Ventadour  lay  on  her  couch  with 
her  children  beside  her,  and  only  the  flickering 
fire-light  to  illumine  the  room.  Bertrand  for 
the  first  time  had  broached  the  magic  word 
"America."  Many  had  gone  to  that  far-off 
land  of  late,  and  made  fortunes  there.  Why 
should  not  he  tempt  destiny  too?  He  had 
sworn  to  his  mother  that  he  would  never  again 
think  of  suicide.  The  word  "America"  had 
made  her  tremble,  but  it  was  not  so  terrible  as 
death. 

And  on  this  dull  winter's  afternoon,  with  the 
fire-light  making  quaint,  fantastic  patterns  on 
the  whitewashed  ceiling,  they  had  for  the  first 
time  talked  seriously  of  America. 

"But  promise  me,  Bertrand,"  mother  had 
entreated,  "that  you  will  not  think  of  it,  until 
I've  gone." 

And  Micheline  had  said  nothing:  she  had  not 
even  wondered  what  would  become  of  her,  when 
mother  had  gone  and  Bertrand  sailed  for 
America. 

They  all  heard  the  noise  attendant  on  the 
arrival  of  the  courier:  the  tramping  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  in  the  court-yard,  the  rattle  of 


298  NICOLETTE 

chains,  the  banging  of  doors,  and  old  Madame's 
voice  harsh  and  excited.  Then  her  quick  step 
along  the  corridor,  the  rustle  of  her  gown. 
Instinctively  the  three  of  them  drew  closer  to 
one  another — like  trapped  animals  when  the 
enemy  is  nigh. 

Old  Madame  came  in  with  arms  out- 
stretched, and  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Come  to  my  arms,  Bertrand,"  she  said,  with 
a  dramatic  gesture.  "The  last  of  the  Venta- 
dours  can  look  every  man  in  the  face  now." 

She  was  striving  to  hide  her  excitement,  her 
obvious  relief  behind  a  theatrical  and  showy 
attitude.  She  went  up  to  the  little  group 
around  the  invalid's  couch,  and  stood  over  them 
like  a  masterful,  presiding  deity.  And  all  the 
while  she  flourished  the  letter  which  she  held. 

"A  light,  Bertrand,  for  mercy's  sake!"  she 
went  on  impatiently.  "Name  of  a  name,  all 
our  lives  are  transformed  by  this  letter!  Did 
I  not  tell  you  all  along  that  I  would  turn  the 
tide  of  our  misfortune  into  one  of  prosperity? 
Well!  I've  done  it.  I've  done  it  more  com- 
pletely, more  wonderfully  than  I  ever  dared  to 
hope!  And  you  all  sit  here  like  automatons 
whilst  the  entire  current  of  our  destiny  has  been 
diverted  to  golden  channels!" 

She  talked  rather  wildly,  somewhat  inco- 


OLD   MADAME  299 

herently;  altogether  she  appeared  different  to 
her  usual  haughty,  unimpassioned  self.  Ber- 
trand  rose  obediently  and  lit  the  lamp,  and 
placed  a  chair  for  old  Madame  beside  the  table. 

She  sat  down  and  without  another  word  to 
the  others,  she  became  absorbed  in  rereading 
the  letter,  the  paper  made  a  slight  crackling 
sound  while  she  read,  as  her  hands  were  trem- 
bling a  little.  The  Comtesse  Marcelle,  silent 
as  usual,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  stately  fig- 
ure of  the  family  autocrat  with  the  pathetic 
gaze  of  an  unloved  dog  seeking  to  propitiate 
an  irascible  master.  Micheline  clung  to  her 
mother's  hand,  silent  and  subdued  by  this  at- 
mosphere of  unreality  which  grandmama's  the- 
atrical gestures  and  speech  had  evoked.  Ber- 
trand  alone  appeared  disinterested.  He  stood 
beside  the  hearth  and  stared  moodily  into  the 
fire  as  if  the  whole  affair,  whatever  it  was,  did 
not  concern  him. 

Grandmama  read  the  letter  through  twice 
from  beginning  to  end.  Then  she  folded  it  up 
carefully,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  clasped  her 
hands  over  it. 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  she  said  more  quietly, 
"no  ambiguity." 

She  looked  at  them  all  as  if  expecting  to  be 
questioned.  The  news  was  so  wonderful !  She 


300  NICOLETTE 

was  bubbling  over  with  it,  and  they  sat  there 
like  automatons ! 

"Bertrand,"  she  half  implored,  half  com- 
manded. 

"Yes,  grandmama,"  he  responded  dully. 

"You  say  nothing,"  she  urged  with  a  febrile 
beating  together  of  her  hands,  "you  ask  no 
questions.  And  this  letter — mon  Dieu,  this 
letter — it  means  life  to  you — to  us  all!" 

"Is  it  from  the  King,  Madame?"  the  Com- 
tesse  Marcelle  asked,  still  with  that  look  on  her 
face  of  a  poor  dog  trying  to  propitiate  his  mas- 
ter. She  was  so  afraid  that  grandmama  would 
become  angry  if  Bertrand  remained  silent — 
and  there  were  the  habits  of  a  life-time — the 
fear  of  grandmama  if  she  should  become  angry. 

"The  letter  is  from  M.  le  Marquis  de  Mon- 
taudon,"  old  Madame  condescended  to  explain. 
"He  writes  to  me  in  answer  to  an  appeal  which 
I  made  to  him  on  behalf  of  Bertrand." 

Bertrand  tried  to  rouse  himself  from  his 
apathy.  The  habits  of  a  life-time  ruled  him 
too — the  respect  always  accorded  grandmama 
when  she  spoke. 

"M.  de  Montaudon,"  he  said,  speaking  with 
an  effort,  "is  treasurer  to  the  King." 

"And  a  valued  friend  of  His  Majesty,"  old 


OLD    MADAME  301 

Madame  rejoined.  "You  must  have  met  him 
in  Paris." 

"No,  never,"  Bertrand  replied.  "De  Mon- 
taudon  is  a  real  misanthrope  where  society  is 
concerned.  He  leads  the  life  of  a  hermit 
wrapped  up  in  bank-notes,  so  'tis  said,  and 
juggling  all  day  with  figures." 

"A  brilliant  man,"  grandmama  assented. 
"He  has  saved  the  financial  situation  of  France 
and  of  his  King.  He  is  a  man  who  deals  in 
millions,  and  thinks  in  millions  as  others  do  in 
dozens.  He  and  I  were  great  friends  once," 
she  went  on  with  a  quick,  impatient  sigh, 
"many,  many  years  ago — in  the  happy  days 
before  the  Revolution — my  husband  took  me 
up  to  Paris  one  year  when  I  was  sick  with  nos- 
talgia and  ennui,  and  he  feared  that  I  would 
die  of  both  complaints  in  this  old  owl's  nest. 
Then  it  wasihat  I  met  de  Montaudon — le  beau 
Montaudon  as  he  was  called — and  he  fell  in 
love  with  me.  He  had  the  blood  of  the  South 
in  his  veins,  for  his  mother  was  a  Sicilian,  and 
he  loved  me  as  only  children  of  the  South  can 
love — ardently,  immutably. 

"My  husband's  jealousy,  then  the  turmoil 
of  the  Revolution,  and  finally  Montaudon's 
emigration  to  England,  whence  he  only  re- 
turned six  years  ago,  kept  us  apart  all  this 


302  N  I  C  O  L  E  T  T  E 

while.  A  whole  life-time  lies  between  the  mis- 
eries of  to-day  and  those  happy,  golden  days 
in  Paris.  Since  then  my  life  has  been  one 
ceaseless,  tireless  struggle  to  rebuild  the  for- 
tunes of  this  family  to  which  I  had  been  fool 
enough  to  link  my  destiny.  Forty  years  I 
have  worked  and  toiled  and  fought — beaten 
again  and  again — struck  down  by  Fate  and  the 
cowardice  of  those  who  should  have  been  my 
fellow-workers  and  my  support — but  van- 
quished never — I  have  fought  and  struggled 
— and  had  I  died  during  the  struggle  I  should 
have  died  fighting  and  unconquered.  Forty 
years!"  she  went  on  with  ever-growing  excite- 
ment, whilst  with  a  characteristic  gesture  of 
determination  and  energy  she  beat  upon  the 
letter  before  her  with  her  fists,  "but  I  have 
won  at  last!  Montaudon  has  not  forgotten. 
His  letter  here  is  in  answer  to  mine.  I  asked 
him  for  the  sake  of  old  times  to  extend  his 
patronage  to  my  grandson,  to  befriend  him, 
to  help  him  in  his  career !  And  see  his  reply !" 
She  took  up  the  letter  once  more,  unfolded 
it,  smoothed  it  out  with  loving,  quivering  hands. 
She  put  up  her  lorgnette  to  read:  obviously 
her  eyes  were  dim,  filled  with  tears  of  excite- 
ment and  of  joy. 


OLD   MADAME  303 

"This  is  how  he  begins,"  she  began  slowly, 
striving  in  vain  to  steady  her  voice. 

BEAUTIFUL  AND  UNFORGETTABLE  FRIEND, 

Send  your  grandson  to  me!  I  mill  pro- 
vide for  him,  because  he  belongs  to  you,  and 
became  in  his  eyes  I  shall  mayhap  find  a 
look  which  will  help  me  to  recapture  a  mem- 
ory or  so  out  of  the  past.  Send  the  boy  with- 
out delay.  I  really  need  a  help  in  my  work, 
and  there  is  a  young  and  beautiful  lady  who 
is  very  dear  to  me;  for  whom  I  would  gladly 
find  a  well-born  and  handsome  husband. 
Your  grandson  appears  to  be  the  very  man 
for  that  attractive  office:  thus  he  will  have 
a  brilliant  career  before  him  as  my  protege 
and  an  exquisitely  sentimental  one  as  the 
husband  of  one  of  the  loveliest  women  in  this 
city  where  beautiful  women  abound.  See! 
how  right  you  were  to  make  appeal  to  my 
memory.  I  never  forget.  .  .  ." 

This  was  no  more  than  one  half  of  the  letter, 
but  old  Madame  read  no  more.  She  glanced 
round  in  triumph  on  the  three  faces  that  were 
turned  so  eagerly  towards  her.  But  nobody 
spoke.  Marcelle  was  silent,  but  her  eyes  were 
glowing  as  if  new  life  had  been  infused  into 


304  NICOLETTE 

her  blood.  Micheline  was  silent  because,  young 
as  she  was,  she  had  had  in  life  such  vast  ex- 
perience of  golden  schemes  that  had  always 
gone  agley!  and  Bert  rand  was  silent  because 
his  very  soul  was  in  travail  with  hope  and  fear, 
with  anxiety  and  a  wild,  mad,  bewildering  ex- 
citement which  almost  choked  him. 

Grandmama  talked  on  for  awhile:  she 
planned  and  she  arranged  and  gazed  into  a 
future  so  golden  that  she  and  Marcelle  and 
Micheline  were  dazzled  by  it  all.  Bertrand 
alone  remained  obstinately  silent:  neither  old 
Madame's  impatience,  nor  his  mother's  joy 
dragged  him  out  of  his  moodiness.  In  vain  did 
grandmama  expatiate  on  M.  de  Montaudon's 
wealth  and  influence,  or  on  the  array  of  beauti- 
ful and  rich  heiresses  whose  amorous  advances 
to  Bertrand  would  make  the  faithless  Rixende 
green  with  envy,  in  vain  did  his  mother  mur- 
mur with  pathetic  entreaty: 

"Are  you  not  happy,  Bertrand?" 
He  remained  absorbed,  buried  in  thoughts, 
thoughts  that  he  was  for  the  moment  wholly 
incapable  of  co-ordinating.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  if  hundreds  of  thousands  of  voices  were 
shrieking  in  his  ear:  hundreds  of  thousands 
that  were  high-pitched  and  harsh  like  the  voice 
of  old  Madame;  they  shrieked  and  they 


OLD   MADAME  S05 

screamed,  and  they  roared,  and  the  words  that 
they  uttered  all  came  in  a  jumble,  incoherent 
and  deafening:  a  medley  of  words  through 
which  he  only  distinguished  a  few  from  time 
to  time: 

"Treasurer  to  the  King!"  some  of  the  voices 
shrieked. 

"All  debts  paid  in  full— in  full!"  others 
screamed. 

"Wealth — an  heiress — a  brilliant  marriage 
— Rixende — envy — hatred  —  chance  —  career 
— money — money — money — wealth — a  rich 
heiress — money — money — no  debts " 

They  shrieked  and  they  shrieked,  and  he 
could  no  longer  hear  grandmama's  arguments, 
nor  his  mother's  gentle  appeal.  They  shrieked 
so  loudly  that  his  head  buzzed  and  his  temples 
throbbed:  because  all  the  while  he  was  strain- 
ing every  nerve  to  listen  to  something  which 
was  inaudible,  which  was  drowned  in  that  awful 
uproar. 

After  awhile  the  noise  was  stilled.  Old  Ma- 
dame ceased  to  speak.  The  Comtesse  Mar- 
celle,  wearied  out  by  so  much  excitement,  lay 
back  with  eyes  closed  against  the  pillows. 
Micheline  was  bathing  her  forehead  with  vine- 
gar. Bertrand  woke  as  from  a  dream.  He 


306  NICOLETTE 

gazed  about  him  like  a  sleepwalker  brought 
back  to  consciousness,  and  found  old  Madame's 
slightly  mocking  gaze  fixed  upon  him.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  are  bewildered,  my  dear,"  she  said  not 
unkindly.  "I  am  not  surprised.  It  will  take 
you  some  time  to  realise  the  extent  of  your 
good  fortune." 

She  carefully  folded  the  letter  up  again,  and 
patted  it  with  both  her  hands  like  a  precious, 
precious  treasure. 

"What  a  future,  Bertrand,"  she  exclaimed 
suddenly.  "What  a  future!  In  my  wildest 
dreams  I  had  never  hoped  for  this!" 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically,  then  smiled 
again. 

"Were  I  in  your  shoes,  my  dear,  I  should 
be  equally  bewildered.  Take  my  advice  and 
go  quietly  to  your  room  and  think  it  all  over. 
To-morrow  we  will  plan  the  immediate  future. 
Eh?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow!"  Bertrand  assented  me- 
chanically. 

"You  will  have  to  start  for  Paris  very  soon," 
she  went  on  earnestly. 

"Very  soon,"  Bertrand  assented  again. 

"Well!  think  over  it,  my  dear,"  old  Madame 
concluded;  she  rose  and  made  for  the  door; 


OLD   MADAME  307 

"I'll  say  good  night  now,  Marcelle,"  she  said 
coolly.  "I  am  tired  too,  and  will  sup  in  my 
room,  then  go  early  to  bed.  Come  and  kiss  me, 
Micheline!"  she  added. 

The  girl  obeyed;  old  Madame's  hand  was 
now  on  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"Are  you  too  dazed,"  she  said  with  a  not 
unkind  touch  of  irony  and  turning  to  Bertrand, 
"to  bid  me  good  night,  my  dear?" 

He  came  across  to  her,  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

"Good  night,  grandmama,"  he  murmured. 

Smiling  she  held  up  the  letter. 

"The  casket,"  she  said,  "that  holds  the 
golden  treasure." 

He  put  out  his  hand  for  it. 

"May  I  have  it?" 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  hesitate,  then 
shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  and  placed  the  letter 
in  his  hand :  but  before  her  hold  on  it  relaxed, 
she  added  seriously:  "You  will  be  discreet, 
Bertrand?" 

"Of  course,"  he  replied. 

"I  mean  you  will  not  read  more  than  the 
first  page  and  a  half,  up  to  the  words :  'I  never 
forget '  " 


308  NICOLETTE 

"Up  to  the  words  'I  never  forget',"  Bertrand 
assented.  "I  promise." 

He  took  the  letter  and  thrust  it  into  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  Old  Madame  with  a  final 
nod  to  him  and  the  others  sailed  out  of  the 
room. 

"Mother  is  tired,"  Micheline  said,  as  soon 
as  grandmama  had  gone,  "let  us  leave  the  talk- 
ing until  to-morrow;  shall  we?" 

Bertrand  agreed.  He  appeared  much  re- 
lieved at  the  suggestion,  kissed  his  mother  and 
sister  and  finally  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

VOICES 

THE  shrieking  voices  were  all  stilled,  but 
there  were  murmurings  and  whisperings 
in  Bertrand's  ears  all  the  while  that  he  made 
his  way  down  into  the  valley.  He  had  no  defi- 
nite purpose  in  his  mind,  only  just  wandered 
down  the  mountain  side,  in  and  out  of  the 
groves  of  olive  trees  and  mimosa,  past  the  carob 
tree  beside  which  when  a  boy  he  was  wont 
to  tilt  at  dragons,  whilst  wee,  podgy  Nicolette 
would  wait  patiently,  stiff  and  sore  and  uncom- 
plaining, until  he  was  ready  to  release  her. 
The  whole  drama  of  his  life  seemed  to  be  set 
on  this  mountain  side  beside  the  carob  tree: 
his  hot-headedness,  his  selfishness,  his  impulsive 
striving  after  impossible  ideals,  beside  Nico- 
lette's  gentle  abnegation  and  her  sublime  sur- 
render. 

After  the  cold  of  the  early  days  of  the  year, 
the  air  had  become  sweet  and  balmy:  already 
there  was  a  feeling  of  spring  in  the  warm, 
gentle  breeze  that  came  wafted  from  the  south 

309  * 


310  NICOLETTE 

and  softly  stirred  the  delicate  tendrils  of  gre- 
villea  and  mimosa.  In  the  branches  of  carob 
and  olive  the  new  sap  was  slowly  rising,  whilst 
the  mossy  carpet  beneath  the  wanderer's  feet 
was  full  of  young  life  and  baby  shoots  that  ex- 
haled a  perfume  of  vitality  and  of  young,  eager 
growth.  From  the  valley  below  there  rose  a 
pungent  scent  of  wild  thyme  and  basilisk,  and 
from  afar  there  came  wafted  on  the  gently 
stirring  wings  of  night  the  fragrance  of  early 
citron-blossom.  Overhead  the  canopy  of  the 
sky  was  of  an  intense,  deep  indigo:  on  it  the 
multitude  of  tiny  stars  appeared  completely 
detached,  like  millions  of  infinitesimal  balls, 
never  still  .  .  .  winking,  blinking,  alive — a 
thousand  hued  and  infinitely  radiant.  When 
Bertrand  emerged  into  the  open,  the  crescent 
moon,  mysterious  and  pale,  was  slowly  rising 
above  the  ruined  battlements  of  the  old  chateau. 
A  moment  later  and  the  whole  landscape 
gleamed  as  if  tinged  with  silver.  A  living, 
immense  radiance  shimmering  like  an  endless 
sheet  of  myriads  upon  myriads  of  paillettes, 
against  which  trenchant  and  detached,  as  if 
thrown  upon  that  glowing  background,  by  the 
vigorous  brush  of  a  master  craftsman,  rose  the 
multi-coloured  tiled  roofs  of  the  mas,  the  som- 
bre splashes  of  slender  cypress  trees,  or  the 


VOICES  an 

bright  golden  balls  of  oranges  nestling  in  the 
dark,  shiny  foliage. 

And  the  wanderer  stood  and  gazed  upon 
this  perfect  picture  which  was  his  home:  old 
Provence  the  land  of  his  ancestors,  of  the 
troubadours,  of  the  courts  of  love,  of  romance 
and  poesy:  the  fragrant,  exquisite,  warm  land 
of  the  south;  and  out  of  all  this  beauty,  this 
radiance,  this  life,  there  rose  in  his  heart  a  wild, 
mad  longing  that  seemed  almost  to  deprive  him 
of  his  senses.  Voices  rose  out  of  the  valley, 
came  down  from  the  mountain  side,  voices 
gentle  and  sweet  were  all  around  him,  and  the 
words  that  they  murmured  and  whispered  all 
became  merged  into  one — just  one  magic  word, 
a  name  that  was  the  very  essence,  the  inbeing 
of  his  longing. 

"Nicolette!" 

He  arrived  at  the  mas,  just  after  they  had 
finished  supper.  Jaume  Deydier  was  sitting 
silent  and  moody,  as  he  always  was  now,  beside 
the  fire.  Nicolette  was  helping  Margai  to  put 
the  house  in  order  for  the  night.  The  front 
door  was  still  on  the  latch  and  Bertrand  walked 
straight  into  the  living-room.  At  sight  of  him 
Deydier  rose  frowning. 

"M.  le  Comte,"  he  began. 


S12  NICOLETTE 

But  Bertrand  went  boldly  up  to  him.  He 
placed  one  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder, 
and  with  the  other  drew  the  letter  out  of  his 
pocket — the  letter  which  had  been  written  by 
M.  de  Montaudon  who  was  Treasurer  to  the 
King. 

"Monsieur  Deydier,"  he  said  simply,  "a 
fortnight  ago,  when  I  had  the  presumption  to 
suppose  that  you  would  consent  to  my  mar- 
riage with  your  daughter,  you  very  justly 
taunted  me  in  that  I  had  nothing  whatever  to 
offer  her  save  a  tarnished  name  and  a  multi- 
plicity of  debts.  You  spoke  harshly  that  day, 
Monsieur  Deydier " 

"My  dear  Bertrand,"  the  old  man  put  in 
kindly. 

"Let  me  have  my  say,  Monsieur  Deydier," 
Bertrand  went  on  speaking  very  rapidly,  "for 
in  truth  the  words  are  choking  me.  No  doubt 
you  think  me  an  impudent  puppy  for  daring 
to  come  to  you  again.  But  circumstances  are 
different  now — very,  very  different.  I  no 
longer  come  before  you  empty-handed,  I  come 
to  you  to-day  holding  here,  in  my  hand,  a  bril- 
liant career,  a  dazzling  future.  Those  two 
things  are  mine — a  free  gift  to  me  from  one 
who  believes  in  me,  who  means  me  well.  They 
are  mine,  Monsieur  Deydier,"  and  Bertrand's 


VOICES  sis 

voice  broke  on  a  note  of  pathetic  entreaty,  "and 
I  have  come  to  you  to-night  just  to  lay  them 
without  the  slightest  compunction  or  regret  at 
the  feet  of  Xicolette.  Let  her  come  to  me," 
he  entreated.  "I  want  neither  money,  nor 
luxury,  nor  rank.  I  only  want  her  and  her 
love.  My  career,  my  future  prospects  I  just 
offer  her  in  exchange  for  the  right  to  live  here 
with  you  at  the  mas,  to  be  your  son,  your  serv- 
ant, your  devoted  worker,  to  do  with  and  order 
about  just  as  you  please!  Read  this  letter, 
Monsieur  Deydier,  you  will  see  that  I  am  not 

lying Everything  I  have — everything  I 

hope  for — family — friends — I  want  nothing — 
if  only  you  will  give  me  Xicolette." 

Now  his  voice  broke  completely.  He  sank 
into  a  chair  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hand,  for 
his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

Silently  Jaume  took  the  letter  from  him, 
and  silently  he  read  it.  When  he  had  finished 
reading,  he  gave  the  letter  back  to  Bertrand. 

"You  have  your  mother  to  consider,  M.  le 
Comte,"  was  the  first  thing  he  said. 

"My  mother's  hold  on  life  is  so  slender,  Mon- 
sieur Deydier,"  Bertrand  replied.  "When  she 
is  gone  nothing  will  hold  me  to  the  chateau,  for 
Micheline  loves  me  and  would  be  happy  if  she 
were  anvwhere  with  me." 


314  NICOLETTE 

"And  do  you  really  mean  all  that  you  said 
just  now?"  the  old  man  rejoined  earnestly. 

"Ask  yourself,  Monsieur  Deydier,"  Ber- 
trand  replied  simply.  "Do  you  think  that  I 
was  lying?" 

"No!"  Deydier  said  firmly,  and  placed  an 
affectionate  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 
"But  there  is  old  Madame " 

"For  the  sake  of  a  past  sin,"  Bertrand  re- 
torted, "or  a  time-worn  revenge,  would  you 
wreck  Nicolette's  happiness?  She  loves  me. 
She  will  never  be  happy  without  me.  Old 
Madame  shall  never  come  between  us.  She 
will  remain  at  the  chateau,  or  go  as  she 
pleases,  but  she  shall  never  cross  my  life's 
path  again.  'Tis  with  me  now,  and  with  me 
alone  that  you  need  deal,  Monsieur  Deydier. 
By  giving  up  all  that  M.  de  Montaudon  has 
offered  me,  I  break  definitely  with  the  past, 
and  'tis  to  Nicolette  that  I  look  for  the  future, 
to  Nicolette  and  this  old  place  which  I  love: 
and  if  you  no  longer  think  me  mean  and  un- 
worthy ..." 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips.  He  had 
spoken  dully,  quietly,  with  intent  gaze  fixed 
upon  the  flickering  fire.  But  now,  suddenly 
two  warm,  clinging  arms  were  around  his  neck, 


VOICES  315 

a  soft,  silky  mass  of  brown  curls  was  against 
his  cheek. 

"You  are  right,  Tan-tan,"  a  fairy  voice  mur- 
mured in  his  ear,  "I  will  never  be  happy  with- 
out you." 

The  next  moment  he  was  down  on  his  knees, 
pressing  his  face  against  two  sweet-smelling 
palms,  that  were  soft  and  fragrant  like  a  mass 
of  orange-blossom. 

And  Jaume  Deydier  tiptoed  silently  out  of 
the  room. 


THE  END 


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